


Mira Mira

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassin Castiel (Supernatural), Domestic Fluff, Federal Agent Dean Winchester, M/M, Mentions Of Past Violent Situations, Secret Identity, Self-Discovery, Witness Protection, gender fluidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-20 02:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18983194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Castiel is forced to retire from being the world's most prolific and successful hired gun. He gets dropped off atWinchester B&Bwith a vague notion to 'find himself', but he's having a hard time understanding first of all: what that means, and secondly: how to even do that.The proprietor ofWinchester B&B, Dean, a retired ex Fed, seems to have some ideas of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michi27](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michi27/gifts).



> this story is designed to be read in one sitting. interruptions will, well, interrupt the flow.  
> thank you to jackie, daina, and kristin for giving it a once-over.  
> this fic is for my baby girl michi, who inspires me when i least expect it.  
> [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hijpWDd4Rp0) was especially inspiring.

“No if’s and’s or _but’s_ , Novak. You’re gonna stay here for the next three months- I don’t care what you do. Paint your nails, sleep in, get drunk every day. All I know is I’m gonna leave you here, and for the next three months I’m not gonna hear a _peep_ out of you. And when three months is up? I’ll drive my happy, stress-free ass back here, pick you up, and get you situated wherever you wanna be. You have three months to figure out what to do with the rest of your life. You have three months to stay the hell out of my hair.” 

The trunk of the car slams shut, the owner of the vehicle a stern-faced, chocolate-skinned man wearing an ill-fitting navy suit despite the humid, hot weather. He shoves a full duffel bag roughly into another man’s arms, uncaring of the way he stumbles back slightly, lifting a finger when the man opens his mouth to speak.

“Not a _word_ ,” Victor seethes.

Castiel closes his mouth and nods, squinting slightly against the mid-July sun, feeling a rivulet of sweat drop from his temple down to his jaw. He’s been in hotter parts of the country - of the world - but after being in an air-conditioned car for the past four hours, he’s finding himself uncomfortable with the humidity. Unlike Victor, Castiel had at least thought ahead to wear jeans and a t-shirt, at the very least, even though the shirt is sticking to his shoulders and waist uncomfortably. Shifting so the strap of the duffel bag rests properly over his shoulder, he watches Victor amble back towards the driver’s side of the nondescript black sedan. 

“You’ll be safe here,” Victor says, resting his arms atop the car and nodding towards the house behind Castiel.

Turning, Castiel follows Victor’s gaze to the two-story Colonial home. It’s a beautiful white house with shutters a shade of blue that rivals the clear sky above. There’s a wraparound porch painted the same hue of the shutters, everything looking freshly remodeled and exuding a loving touch. The grass is green, the flowers in full bloom, and there’s a sign hanging from the rafters of the porch - **WINCHESTER B &B** \- made of aged wood with the letters burned neatly into it. Castiel imagines that a lovely elderly couple runs the place; everything is meticulously groomed, beautifully welcoming. 

It feels warm.

And, true to Victor’s words, it feels safe.

But Castiel knows better than to fall into an easy sense of security. Looking back towards the federal agent, Castiel can’t help but frown. “What am I supposed to do here?” 

“I dunno, Novak,” Victor sends him a bemused, but befuddled smile. “What have you always wanted to do, but were never able to?”

That’s a loaded question, and they both know it. Castiel looks down at the stone paver he’s standing on with a pair of brand new sneakers, knowing that if he turns around and takes a few steps, more of the same stones will lead the way up to the bed and breakfast. He feels inconsequential on this one small paver, barely big enough to house both of his feet, spread shoulder width apart. The world seems so big now.

“Hey,” Victor’s voice softens, causing Castiel to look up and meet his gaze. “You know you deserve this, right?” Castiel’s breath catches in his throat before Victor even says the next words, “A second chance.” 

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, and then Victor breaks the silence by rapping his knuckles on the roof of the car. That’s his goodbye. The car door shuts, the engine turns, and then Victor’s driving down the straightaway that leads towards the main road. Sighing softly, Castiel turns around fully to look up at the bed and breakfast. It’s truly beautiful and quaint, and were Castiel a better man, he might even think that it could remain untainted from all the evil in the world.

As it is, evil will be sleeping under its roof for the next three months. 

Following the pavers he walks up the steps of the porch, feeling how sturdy each plank of wood is under his feet. Good craftsmanship. This house is probably two-hundred years old and yet looks brand-new with fresh paint and not a single suggestion of rotted wood. The **WINCHESTER B &B** sign swings idly in the soft breeze as Castiel raises his fist to knock gently on the screen door. The heavy inner door is propped wide open and through the screen Castiel can see a spacious foyer, but not much else due to the shade of the mesh. 

“Coming!” 

Castiel blinks, his visions of a sweet elderly couple disappearing as his vision is instead filled with the sight of a handsome man, close to Castiel’s age. He opens the screen door and Castiel steps to the side so as not to get hit, momentarily stunned by the welcoming, charming smile the man is wearing. 

“You must be Mr. Novak?” 

Grip tightening on the strap of the duffle bag, Castiel nods curtly. 

“Great.” Still propping the door open with one hand, the man sticks out the other. “Dean Winchester.”

Castiel eyes his hand cautiously, and chooses instead to wring the strap of his bag. “You are the… proprietor of this bed and breakfast?” 

The amused smile Dean casts Castiel’s way does something funny to his insides. Strange. “Sure am. You gonna come in or turn this into an insect b-and-b?”

“Oh,” Castiel starts, realizing the screen had been propped open for a bit too long. “My apologies.” 

Dean leads him into the foyer as the screen clatters shut behind them. “You don’t gotta take off your shoes or nothin’, this wood floor’s durable as hell.” He turns another warm smile towards Castiel. “Want a tour? Or- shoot, you were probably in a car for a while, huh? Victor said you’d be driving in instead of flying. I can show you your room and you can wash up, instead.” 

“Please,” Castiel agrees, unsurprised that Victor had been in contact with Dean. The thought of a shower is greatly appealing. South Carolina is much more humid than his home base of Pontiac, Illinois. 

“This way.” 

Through the foyer, Castiel starts to take in his surroundings. The first floor of the home is clearly for commercial use. Near the front of the home on the left side of the foyer is what looks like a tea room - there are a few tables and chairs situated, draped delicately and elegantly with lace and flowers, each of them set for two. There’s a china cabinet against the far wall, and floating shelves loaded with what looks to be different types of teas and coffees. The color palette of the room is soft cremes, blush pinks, and orchids with splashes of spring green and daffodil yellows. There’s a few machines on a sturdy countertop installed into the wall, but that’s all Castiel sees before they continue on. The next open door on the right showcases a large space with couches, loveseats, recliners, and an up-to-date entertainment system. The next room is closed behind solid oak french doors, and Castiel is curious, but not enough to peek in. 

Across from these doors is a staircase, which is where Dean turns to ascend. The stairs barely creak under their weight and Castiel, once again, finds himself impressed with the craftsmanship. Dean must have put a lot of time, energy, and love into his business. At the top of the stairs there are two doors on each side, a respectable distance apart from each other. 

“We got four rooms for guests,” Dean explains. He leads Castiel down the hallway towards the farthest door on the left, pulling an old skeleton key out of his pocket and handing it to Castiel with a smile. “Keep this on you.”

Castiel takes the key from Dean’s fingers, his eyes automatically taking in the neatly trimmed nails that contrast greatly against the calluses of his palms. An interesting contradiction. With a thankful smile he inserts the key in the lock and twists, the click of the tumblers inside the mechanism a comforting noise.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Dean says, checking the digital watch on his wrist. “”Bout time for me to start cookin’ dinner. You’re my only guest right now- any requests?” 

Blinking in surprise, Castiel wonders if Dean is being especially accommodating because Castiel is his only guest, or simply is this accommodating anyway. A quick search of Dean’s gentle, earnest face has Castiel realizing that the love and care he feels built into this home came directly from Dean - Dean, who exudes that kindness and love in spades, probably without even realizing it.

Castiel has never met anyone like him before, and that’s saying something, because Castiel has met perhaps thousands of people throughout his lifetime.

“Whatever you cook will be sufficient,” Castiel replies after a moment’s thought. He doesn’t even know what he’d ask for. It’s been a long time since he’s had a home cooked meal, or any food that didn’t come prepackaged or pre-selected. Besides, this is the reset button for his life. He thinks that allowing this small decision to be made by the man in front of him is a step in the right direction… the direction that will lead him away from his sordid past, much like those pavers outside led him up to the doorstep of the beautiful bed and breakfast. Castiel needs to learn how to let go of the rigid control that outlines his entire life.

“Cool,” Dean says, completely unaware of the monumental choice Castiel has made, simply by giving up his own ability and _need_ to choose. “Probably be ready in about an hour.”

Watching Dean leave, Castiel catalogues him from behind out of habit. Side effect from the job. Broad shoulders. Firm back. His t-shirt isn’t tight but it doesn’t hide his slightly soft middle, and the straight cut of his jeans allows Castiel to take in his bow legs ending in socked, slightly arched feet. A sturdily built man, much like the home he remodeled, fit from hard labor versus frequenting a gym or using exercise equipment. Dean disappears down the steps and Castiel allows himself into his bedroom, glancing around, always alert and processing details.

Queen bed, situated in the center of the room, tucked up against the wall between two beautiful, large windows. The curtains are double layered like the kind in hotel rooms, the outside curtains thick and heavy, forest green in color, with softer, sheer cream colored drapes on the inside. The windows open vertically on a slide, and Castiel checks to make sure they’re locked before pulling all of the drapes shut to block out the stifling late afternoon sun. He puts his duffel bag down on the bed, fingers trailing across the thick duvet; it’s a rich, oaky brown, and looks quite warm. Castiel can feel a cool draft from the ceiling vent, appreciating that he won’t get overheated while sleeping at night, and sends a mental thanks to Dean for thinking to install HVAC in an old house like this. 

There’s a tall dresser, cherry wood with five drawers. A standing wardrobe to match, with a few drawers inside, but mostly hanger space. The door between them leads to an en suite bathroom with a shower/tub combo and a bird bath sink, plenty of empty shelving on the walls to house any items Castiel wishes to dispel from his toiletry bag. 

Deciding that a shower is the first order of business, Castiel unpacks his duffel bag, arranging his clothes neatly between the dresser and the hangers in the wardrobe. Showering doesn’t take too long; the complementary soaps smell good, not too fragrant but not stale, and when Castiel dresses in a pair of worn jeans and a plain black t-shirt, he feels… good.

Normal, even. Not that he has much to compare that feeling to.

When he opens his bedroom door and takes care to lock it behind him, Castiel pauses to take in a deep breath. There are no expectations here. He is here, quite literally, on vacation. The first vacation he’s ever had in his life. He doesn’t need his phone, he doesn’t need the news or instructions or tasks or… anything. All he needs is his brain and his two hands and while those two things combined could be deadly as a loaded gun, tonight he takes a moment to relax and… let go. 

The kitchen is beautiful and large. It’s totally updated, almost out of place in the old Colonial home, but the double ovens in the wall and the huge smart fridge are probably things that make Dean’s job easier. There’s a large island in the center of the kitchen with an apron sink and stools for seating, and on the opposite wall is a gas range and second sink. The color scheme is grey with copper accents and hardware - masculine, but welcoming. There are cutesy magnets on the fridge and red checkered dish towels hanging from various handles.

“Hey,” Dean greets cheerily, turning to face Castiel from where he’s standing at the stove. “Just in time. You like burgers?” 

Castiel’s mouth waters. “Very much.” 

Flashing a grin, Dean nods towards the island. “Have a seat. You got any preferences on toppings?” He turns back to the stove. He must be flipping the patties. “I personally like a little bit of everything, and a loooooot of barbecue sauce.” 

On the island are bowls and plates with various toppings. Sliced onions, a few different types of cheese, pickles, condiments, lettuce, even avocado slices and bacon. 

“I’m afraid I’ve only ever had my burgers… plain,” Castiel admits. There was never much time for indulgence when working jobs. Food was fuel, plain and simple, and even if he had the opportunity to have something fancy, he usually tempered it down quite a bit to keep himself from paying more attention to his food than his surroundings.

Dean makes a scoffing noise that might be a health hazard over an open flame. “Well, I’m not letting you get away with _that_.” The oven beeps and Dean moves away from the stove to grab a pot holder, pulling a tray out of the oven. There are perfectly toasted buns on the cookie sheet, which Dean sets down on the island with a wink and a grin. “Start dressing your buns, baby. We’re gonna go on a ride to Flavor Town.” 

Watching Dean move so effortlessly around the kitchen mystifies Castiel. Just looking at Dean one would assume he’s a man’s man; macho, masculine. But the way he moves while cooking is so… easy. Natural. Not only as though he’s been doing this for a long time, but that he truly enjoys it. Picking up a bottom bun off of the tray, Castiel carefully sets it down on the plate in front of him and stares at the options spread in front of him. He ends up dressing his bun with mayonnaise, ketchup, lettuce, bacon, and avocado, folding his hands in his lap once he’s done to wait patiently. Dean delivers the burger patty directly to his bun, nodding his approval at Castiel’s topping choices, and then Castiel watches curiously as Dean starts building a behemoth of a burger, with two patties stacked atop each other and so many onions Castiel’s eyes water from a distance. 

They eat in companionable silence. Castiel isn’t a talker, and Dean must seem to sense it. Dean has a tablet next to him, a stool separating them where they sit, and he’s scrolling through some things with his free hand, tapping here and there. Perhaps business-related. Once their plates are empty and bellies are full Dean shoos Castiel off, announcing that guests don’t do chores - even though Castiel loiters for a few moments, wondering if Dean truly intends to clean up this mess by himself. Dean ignores him and taps on the digital screen of the fridge and Led Zeppelin starts blaring through hidden speakers; Castiel can’t help the startled chuckle that leaves him as he ducks out of the kitchen, understanding that Dean is more than happy to take care of things by himself.

In bed, Castiel lies with the window cracked open just a smidge and a knife under his pillow, a Beretta loaded and cocked in the top drawer of his dresser in a pile of underwear. He’s tucked tightly under the covers as he stares up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of nearby trees dance across the ceiling. The curtains ruffle softly with the cool night breeze. 

For the first time in nearly twenty years, Castiel’s eyes close, and he falls asleep peacefully.

\--*--

_Winchester B &B_ is never left wanting for business. Throughout the whole year there are trends, of course - the summer and the holidays are always the busiest - but even in what most places consider the ‘off’ season, Dean still has guests. Doris, for instance, lives in Monticello, but is almost eighty years old and lives all alone in her estate. She’s got no kin to write into her will so she visits Dean for one weekend out of every month; she says it’s a welfare check since Dean’s own parents aren’t around to do it, but Dean knows it’s more about her than it is about him. She’s lonely and doesn’t have a lot of time left on this earth, and she’s the only person in the world that can get away with coddling Dean Winchester. 

Other people from nearby cities and towns like to drop in, as well, usually for a night or two. Dean doesn’t have a minimum-night requirement; anyone could stay one night, a week, or even a month. He won’t ever turn away business - won’t ever turn away a _neighbor_. _Winchester B &B_ is an oasis away from the oasis, and Dean enjoys catering to other professionals who are just looking to take a load off for a day or three. 

The addition of one Castiel Novak to the b-and-b shouldn’t be any different, only… Dean knows it is. The day Castiel had been dropped off he’d seen the unmarked sedan that drove off into the distance. As a retired fed himself, Dean knows all the tells. Dropped in the middle of nowhere on a last minute long-term reservation, made by the local sheriff - Benny, who in turn told Dean about the federal agent Victor - Castiel is as mysterious as they come. Which means he’s a high profile client, and Dean’s job just got a little more involved. He can only assume it’s witness protection, especially when Castiel doesn’t answer even the casual questions lobbed at him. 

And, hey, Dean can tell that Castiel isn’t a chatty guy in the first place, so it’s probably partly secrets and partly that Castiel thinks Dean is annoying as hell. Wouldn’t be too ludicrous. Castiel doesn’t really seem to linger in Dean’s presence too much, but Dean tends to make a point of overstaying his welcome in the brooding man’s company. It helps that Castiel is incredibly easy on the eyes. A few years older than Dean, faint greys in his perpetual stubble and at his temples, the lines around his brow, eyes, and mouth looking like residual frown lines instead of laugh lines. Dean doesn’t see Castiel do much frowning _or_ laughing, but he does catch a small smirk here and there, usually at his expense. 

Castiel is a polite and quiet guest. He never interferes with anyone else that stays in the house, is always on time for meals, and never fails to offer to help clean up - even though Dean never fails to refuse. He’s, in a word, ideal for a long-term guest. Benny is surely relying on Dean for discretion and so he gives it in spades, respectful of his guest and whatever circumstances in his life led him to get cozied up in a b-and-b tucked away in the lush woods of South Carolina. 

The presence of Castiel sort of tempers Dean out. Dean’s always been pretty laid back and easygoing, chatty when spoken to and able to read a room. When it’s just Dean and Castiel occupying a space, though - the entertainment room, where Castiel reads an array of books and Dean curls up in a recliner with his laptop to work on his autobiography; the back porch with freshly squeezed lemonade, Dean on the swing and Castiel on the rocker; the tea room where Castiel studiously examines the china while Dean polishes it - there’s a… stillness, that Dean has never experienced before. 

It’s nice. 

It’s… filling. 

Dean, who boasts that his bed and breakfast is as homey as you’ll find in the South, feels even _more_ at home when he’s sharing his space with Castiel. Which is strange, because Dean is about as emotionally stunted as they come. Sure, he’s charming and sweet and a _really_ good friend as well as a reliable neighbor, but… romance? Even though he catches himself looking at Castiel too long, or occasionally feels a burst of butterflies in his stomach when Castiel meets his gaze, Dean’s got the emotional capacity of a painted rock.

Pretty to look at.

Not so good at relationships.

Not that it really matters, anyway; Castiel keeps a respectable distance, which lets Dean know two things:

One, he’s not interested. In dudes, or even anyone, probably. 

And two, whatever happened in his life that landed him here is probably reason enough for Dean to stay away. 

Too bad.

Dean’s always been like those stupid moths that fling themselves at the nearest light source. 

“Hey,” Dean greets on a Monday morning, a week after Castiel’s initial arrival. Castiel is in the tea room staring at the electric kettle on the solid counter Dean had installed to house the espresso machine. Walking towards where Castiel is staring at the kettle like it offends him, Dean reaches out and presses the button on the base. “This typically helps the water heat up.”

Castiel bristles slightly, moving out of Dean’s space. Oops, he’d gotten a bit close there. “Why do you have an electric kettle in a room like this?” Castiel asks, gesturing around to the delicate doilies and the almost royal tables. “The water should be heated in a proper kettle. On a stove.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, then flashes Castiel a smile, “but customers are clumsy and I’d rather not have the place burn down, y’know? So you heat the water in the electric kettle, then pour it in whatever fancy teapot you want and pretend like modern technology didn’t just help you out a little bit.” He waves at the electric kettle just as the little switch flips to green. “It doesn’t break the ambience for too long. Once people settle down with the goods it’s easy for them to get absorbed into it.”

Castiel is still frowning at the kettle. “Do you have a regular kettle?”

Dean blinks a few times, then tilts his head. “Uh- yeah. In the kitchen.” 

“May I use it?” Castiel asks, turning his gaze towards Dean. His expression is imploring but not too hopeful; the kitchen is Dean’s domain, and guests are allowed to do things like make themselves sandwiches or fix a bowl of cereal if they get snacky between meals, but for the most part people are instructed to steer clear of it unless necessary - or invited. 

“I can put it on for you,” Dean suggests. “You take your tea at eight, right?” 

Crystalline eyes blink in mild surprise. “You… know when I have my morning tea?” 

“Not hard to miss,” Dean says, hoping he sounds casual and not like a stalker. “After breakfast you usually pour in here and then head out to the back porch.” 

Seemingly contemplating Dean’s words, Castiel lifts a thumb to his mouth, pressing gently on his full pink lower lip. Dean resolutely keeps his gaze on Castiel’s. “I see. But Dean, you are busy after breakfast. I can put on my own kettle.” 

“Kinda defeats the purpose of an all hands on deck b-and-b don’t it?” Dean shrugs. “I can do it, no problem.”

Furrowing his brow, Castiel’s narrowed eyes track over Dean’s features. “I do not need you… coddling me.”

Dean balks. “What-?”

Impatient, Castiel huffs and drops his hand from his mouth. “I am fully capable and willing to put on my own kettle in the mornings. I will not do anything else in your precious kitchen, but if I am not allowed to do this one thing for myself, I may go crazy.” 

Brows rising to his hairline, Dean takes a step back. It’s the most Castiel has said to him in a while (maybe ever?), and he’s a bit surprised. “Uh- I mean. I know you’re not helpless, man. I’m just doin’ my job.” 

“Which I appreciate,” Castiel says curtly, “but I do enjoy my independence.” 

“Ok, ok,” Dean raises his hands in a surrendering gesture. “You can get your own tea in the morning.” 

Castiel looks like he’s prepared to argue further, but then seems to register Dean’s words. His posture relaxes minutely and he nods, his fingers fidgeting by his hip slightly. “Thank you. If you’ll show me where the kettle is, please.” 

“Sure,” Dean says, turning to head towards the kitchen and calling over his shoulder. “Grab whatever tea you like, I can put a new canister out later for everyone else.” 

In the kitchen he shows where the kettle (a plain copper thing to match the other hardware in the kitchen) is stored, and then shows Castiel where his canister of tea leaves will be put away in the pantry. 

“Here ya go,” Dean says with a grin. “Your own private stash. Don’t let word get out, though. Can’t let the other guests know I’m sweet on you.” 

Castiel blinks.

Dean blinks.

Castiel clears his throat, ducking his gaze to the side. “...Thank you, Dean. I think I will take a walk.”

“Yep,” Dean replies too quick to be casual. “You uh- you do that, buddy. Have a good one. Good walk. Uh- mhm.”

Leaving without another word, Castiel gently shuts the screen door behind him that leads from the kitchen to the back porch. Dean watches his shadow disappear and then slumps against the island, scrubbing a hand over his mouth and letting out a delirious little laugh. 

“Pull yourself together, asshole.” 

“Dean?” Doris’s voice comes from the front of the house. “Dean, dear, are you home?” 

“Coming!” Dean calls, pushing himself away from the counter. He heads into the foyer to take Doris’s suitcase, bending his six foot frame down so she can plant a bright pink kiss to his stubbled cheek. “You’re early.” 

“Is that sweet angel around?” Doris asks, her beady eyes scanning the tea room from behind her half-moon spectacles. 

Dean smiles softly. “Cas went out on a walk.” 

“What a good boy,” Doris says fondly. She pats Dean’s shoulder. “After you put my things away, could you spare a few moments to keep an old woman company?” 

“Sure thing, ma’am. Go on and have a seat,” Dean says, gesturing to the tea room. “Electric kettle just went off, I’ll get you some tea real quick.”

“No rush, dear,” Doris says warmly as she ambles towards her favorite wing chair. 

It doesn’t take long for Dean to put Doris’s suitcase up in her room; he unpacks all of her clothes between the dresser and the wardrobe and then heads back downstairs, surprised to see Castiel standing in front of Doris as she chatters happily.

“I’ve never seen someone so good at bobbing for apples,” Doris gushes. “Our Dean has quite the mouth on him!” 

Dean feels embarrassment heat his skin immediately. “Woah! Doris, I haven’t even spiked your tea yet.” 

Doris laughs, and Dean sees Castiel turning his head away to hide his amused smile. Rolling his eyes at the both of them Dean grabs a teapot, shifting a few canisters on the floating shelf above the counter until he finds the one he’s looking for. He puts the tea leaves in the strainer and then starts arranging a tray, opening up the mini fridge on the floor to grab the cream. He glances over to see Doris whispering something to a very interested looking Castiel, and then clears his throat softly.

Castiel looks up, and his expression is so smooth and… _youthful_ , it nearly catches Dean off guard.

“Uh-” Dean gestures at the tray. “Wanna join us for tea?”

“Oh, please do, angel,” Doris pleads, her wrinkly hand resting on Castiel’s elbow, fingers gripping the sleeve of his sweater. “I do always enjoy your company.” 

Dean huffs softly under his breath as Castiel agrees. Castiel brings over a table that will fit all three of them, along with two more chairs, these ones the regular ‘tea party’ variety versus the plush chair Doris is occupying. Dean brings the readied tray over to the table and sets it down, carefully pouring them each a cup, and he doctors Doris’s tea with just the right amount of cream and sugar she likes, before he sits himself down. They’re sitting in a bit of a triangle around the table, and Dean feels his knee bump against Castiel’s underneath. Covering it up by shifting, Dean offers Doris an amused grin.

“So, why do you call Cas ‘angel’ all the time?” 

“Because he is one,” Doris replies serenely, taking a sip of her tea. 

Dean arches a brow over at Castiel, who dips his head slightly.

“Castiel is the name of an angel,” Castiel explains. His voice is pretty void of emotion, which Dean finds both intriguing and disconcerting. “I was raised in a very religious household.”

“Huh,” Dean says. He looks at Doris. “How’d you know that?” 

Doris’s eyes gleam as she looks between the two men. “I’ve been on this earth a long time, boy. I know an angel when I see one.”

Snorting a little, Dean pours enough cream in his tea to turn it a light beige. Doris always chooses the strongest blend, and it tends to be a bit much after Dean has already had his three cups of coffee in the morning. He forgoes the sugar, though, then takes a sip. 

“You are blessed to have Castiel here,” Doris continues. “Your home has always been graced by the Lord’s love, God bless your late mama, but He surely sent Castiel here for extra protection and peace.” 

Castiel’s fingering the edge of the doily on the table idly, eyes downcast. He hasn’t touched his tea. 

“Ah, I’m sure Cas is here for a reason alright,” Dean finally says. He feels stupid satisfaction when Castiel’s gaze darts up to his, expression curious and maybe a bit pissy. “But!” Dean turns his smile to Doris. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, right?” 

“Indeed,” Doris agrees.

Dean turns his smile to Castiel, feeling it dim a little when he sees Castiel’s eyes fixed to a specific spot on his face. Self-consciously, Dean shifts in his seat, grabbing his napkin and bringing it up to his mouth.

“I got somethin’ on me?” Dean asks. 

The corner of Castiel’s lip quirks as he lifts his hand to his own face, pressing his fingers to where a dimple might indent his cheek, should he actually smile for real. Mimicking the motion, Dean wipes at the spot and then pulls the napkin away, laughing when it comes away with Doris’s pink lipstick smeared onto it.

“Don’t poke fun, young man,” Doris says to Castiel, who turns his gaze to her. She smiles sweetly at him, “Your cheek is in for the same treatment, you know.”

Castiel looks horrified at the thought. Surely not because he’s grossed out; but likely because physical contact is something he shies away from, and even goes to great lengths to avoid. The thought of being _kissed_ is probably panic-inducing. 

“Now, now, Doris,” Dean gently pats Doris’s frail hand where it lay on the table. “Don’t scare him away yet.”

“I thank you for inviting me to tea,” Castiel says suddenly, standing up. Some of that worry is still etched into the lines around his eyes, and he forces a smile for Doris - even though it looks more like a grimace. “I’m afraid I must retreat to rest. I… suddenly don’t feel well. Excuse me.” 

After Castiel makes his awkward exit Doris lets out a little sigh, turning her hand under Dean’s so she can give his palm a weak squeeze. 

“Hold on to that one, won’t you?” Doris hums, apparently unbothered by Castiel’s abrupt departure. “We all could use a guardian angel in our lives.” 

Dean stares at the seat Castiel had just been occupying, chewing on his lower lip. 

Castiel is no guardian angel. 

Dean isn’t sure what - or who - he is. 

And yet… something makes him want to keep trying. 

What he’s trying to do, he hasn’t figured out yet.

“Are these new doilies?” Doris asks suddenly.

Dean smiles at her, grateful for the topic switch. “Just finished crocheting these ones last week.” Doris chatters on about how she’d like to commission Dean to crochet her a doily to bring home, and he allows his mind to wander while she talks about patterns and colors.

Who _is_ Castiel Novak?


	2. Chapter 2

It doesn’t take long for Castiel to develop a routine. He’s always been a man that enjoys sticking to a schedule. He wakes up every morning at around six, does some stretches in his room, changes into some athletic clothes and then sets out for a jog. Dean’s always up at this time of the morning doing something or other, so Castiel never worries about being locked out of the house. The b-and-b isn’t totally cut off from civilization; after two miles jogging on the side of the row Castiel comes to neighborhoods and small shops, a quaint haze over the scenery as he treks through, lonely in his disturbance so easily in the morning. His route keeps him busy for about forty-five minutes and when he gets back to the house he showers, changes into regular clothes, and then joins Dean in the kitchen for breakfast. Sometimes there are other guests, sometimes it’s just Castiel and Dean. Neither of them seem to mind either way, a silent companionship between them that keeps them from stepping on each other’s toes. 

Per Dean’s suggestion Castiel has access to his own kettle and tea, and he takes a steaming mug with him to the back porch every morning at around eight. It’s at this time that Dean starts doing various chores; some days it’s mowing the lawn or trimming hedges, sometimes it’s weeding the flower beds, sometimes it’s repairing chairs, benches, or the fence. Dean always seems to be busy, and content to be so. He’s got a quiet, hardworking grind, and Castiel can appreciate the fact that Dean keeps himself useful and busy at pretty much all times. Though, sometimes the stray ‘when does he catch a break?’ thought strays through Castiel’s mind, and he remembers that Dean at the very least seems to sleep at night. 

Still, Dean never seems to slow down, save for when he’s being chatted up by guests or fawned over by Doris. In those moments he calms - he fidgets less, his eyes soften, and he pays one-hundred percent attention to whomever he’s speaking with. He listens generously and honestly, always taking interest in any subject brought up to him. He deflects a lot, Castiel has observed, but there’s a quiet intelligence within the man, and the mystery of Dean Winchester only manages to twist and turn continuously. Castiel has always been able to read people well - given his profession, it could literally be a life or death situation - and whenever he thinks he has a pin on Dean, the man does something to completely derail him and go back to the drawing board.

It’s a welcome challenge, even if it is a quiet, one-sided event. 

Three and a half weeks in, it’s Wednesday morning, and as Castiel finishes up his tea he sees Dean coming out of the shed with a handmade wicker basket draped over the crook of his left elbow. Dean approaches one of the trees in the yard and surveys it thoughtfully before grabbing the ladder from where it leans against the peach tree, leaning it up against the tree he’s contemplating. Castiel scans the branches and leaves - this must be the pecan tree - and then watches curiously as Dean sets the basket down on the ground and climbs the ladder. 

Rigorously shaking the branch, there’s the soft pitter patter of objects falling to the ground, some of them making it into the basket and some of them missing entirely. Dean’s grinning while he does it, and in a split second Castiel is moving into the kitchen to rinse out his mug before he steps out into the sunshine where Dean is occupied. 

“Would you like help?” Castiel asks, the words feeling strange and heavy on his tongue. 

Stopping his current violent shaking of a branch, Dean turns curious verdant eyes over towards Castiel. He always denies Castiel’s help, but he takes him by surprise when he asks, “You wanna?” The leaves are dappling the sunlight trying to highlight the freckles on Dean’s face, and Castiel takes a moment to observe the attractive pattern before he nods. The smile that spreads on Dean’s plush lips is warm and inviting, and then he points down to the basket. “Quickest way to get the good pecans is to give the branches a shake. When they’re ready, they fall naturally, and you just kinda scoop ‘em up from the lawn. But I just got an order from a bakery for half a dozen pies, so this is the best way to speed up the harvest process. The ones that are ready will fall when I shake the branches. The ones that aren’t ready yet will stick to the tree and fall when they’re good.” 

Castiel nods in understanding. He’s never seen a pecan tree before, let alone harvested them or had any idea as to how to actually cultivate the nut, so he finds himself fascinated. “Please refrain from shaking and raining pecans on my head.” 

Dean flashes him a wolfish smile. “I’ll do my best to not nut in your hair.” 

Rolling his eyes with his whole body at Dean’s immature and crass humor, Castiel lowers himself to the ground to kneel, using both hands to scoop pecans into his palms and deposit them into the basket. Dean’s aim has been fairly decent, but there’s still quite a bit in the grass, so it takes him a bit to clear away everything he can see. Once Castiel is finished he pushes the basket so that it slides underneath the new branch Dean is angling for, checking with his eyes to see if it’s in a good place, before he sets himself back on his haunches, palms resting on his thighs. 

Turning himself around on the ladder, Dean moves up a step. When he reaches and twists his torso out to the side his worn tee lifts and flutters in the wind and his jeans stretch across his hips and thighs, Castiel’s eyes tracking the movement unbidden. There, underneath the back pockets of the denim, Castiel sees a faint line underneath the material on either side. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was a pantyline, bikini cut strained slightly under the stretch. Dean starts shaking the branch and a few pecans stray to tumble over Castiel’s head and his attention gets stolen, a scowl crossing his features as Dean laughs raucously.

“Hey, I’m in the blast zone too, buddy.”

A few more shakes and then Dean stops, Castiel arching forward on his hands and knees to start working on collecting the pecans. There’s something peaceful about this mechanical motion, gathering all the nuts he can find and putting them into the rapidly filling basket. Even with Dean’s off-color humor the moment is serene, and though Castiel is used to doing something a little more violent and a little less soothing with his hands, it feels good to be using them again. 

Another shift in direction and Castiel adjusts the basket’s location again, watching Dean on the ladder. Now, when he stretches, it’s unmistakable. There’s a panytline under his jeans and Castiel wracks his brain, previously under the assumption that Dean would wholeheartedly, without a doubt, be a boxers man. But the more Castiel studies, while Dean is occupied trying to not fall off of the ladder, the more he sees that it’s not thick material like men’s briefs. Just the panytline is visible, the elastic of the leg holes, likely, and there’s no fold or ripple anywhere else across Dean’s seat that would suggest that he’s wearing briefs, which are made of a thicker, slightly looser material.

After the next vicious shaking Dean deems that they’ve dropped enough pecans, ambling down the ladder casually. Knowing that sometimes his stare can be intense, Castiel ducks his gaze as Dean shifts to kneel in the grass across from him, mimicking Castiel’s scooping motions. He’s on his hands and knees, and Castiel’s eyes trace over his wide shoulders, watching his deltoids and biceps flex as he alternates between bracing himself on the ground and putting the pecans in the basket. When Dean settles back on his feet and glances around for stray pecans, Castiel dutifully takes care of the pile in front of him. But then Dean twists at the waist and stretches on hands and knees towards a few stray pecans off to his left, and that’s when Castiel sees it.

A flash of pink satin.

A flash of heat through his core answers the sight. 

Standing up, Castiel dusts his hands off quickly and then brushes his palms over the knees of his pants, dislodging bits of grass and dirt. Dean doesn’t seem to notice the shift in his demeanor as he stands as well, picking up the basket and hooking it over his arm. His biceps bulge beautifully, elbow and wrist strong, and then Dean’s flashing that brilliant smile towards Castiel.

“Hey man, thanks for the help. You’re pretty handy.” 

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Castiel dips his head in acknowledgement. “It was nice to help. I don’t believe I was meant for sedentary life.”

The measuring look Dean gives him lets Castiel know that Dean, likely, has an inkling as to why he was dumped off at this place by an FBI agent. But he says nothing on the subject, instead nodding and patting the handle of the basket with his free hand. “Any time you wanna help, feel free. Could always use an extra hand.” 

Castiel watches as Dean ambles off towards the house, his gaze dropping down towards Dean’s rear without permission, his mind’s eye supplying him with the image of pink, satin panties stretched across those perky cheeks, snug against sharp hips, the elastic band cutting ever so slightly into the soft skin clinging to Dean’s waist. It’s a pleasant thought, and heat shoots through Castiel’s body once more, the man coughing lightly and turning away from the house to face the forest, letting out a calming breath. 

It shouldn’t matter, what Dean prefers to wear underneath his clothes. Dean’s quite clearly comfortable in his masculinity and sexuality; the duality of his rough-around-the-edges attitude and his propensity for home making lets Castiel know that something as silly as gender roles probably doesn’t filter through Dean’s head like it does in others. Clothing should be much of the same. Instead of Castiel regarding it as something devious, he can appreciate that Dean enjoys the finer things in life. 

Dean’s personality seems to be made up of pleasant paradoxes.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, and Castiel will simply do his best to not let it affect him. 

Instead, as Castiel turns to head back into the house with the idle notion that he could watch a documentary to pass the afternoon, he will consider the discovery as yet another facet to Dean’s story. 

Nothing more, nothing less.

\--*--

After helping Dean with the pecans, Castiel starts showing up during different tasks at different times, silently offering a hand. Dean would be stupid to not take the help - he’s already stupid enough, running this b-and-b basically by himself - and Castiel seems thankful to be occupied. Whatever this guy’s background is, Dean knows what it’s like to go from being busy out the ass to suddenly being bored out of your mind, and he’s happy to offer Castiel a distraction. 

Grooming the lawn becomes a breeze when Dean learns that Castiel’s got an incredible green thumb. The rose bush by the back porch that’s been drooping for the past couple weeks suddenly comes back to life with Castiel’s attention, and Dean finds himself thinking that like the rose bush, he himself has been lifted by Castiel’s capable hands. 

Too deep?

Probably.

But Castiel is an amazing guest, and better company. Dean’s used to filling awkward silences with idle chatter, but he doesn’t need to do that with Castiel, who seems all too happy to work in quiet solitude with little direction. He never needs to be told something twice, which Dean appreciates, and even when they work on opposite sides of the lawn or house, Dean finds himself glancing over at his handsome, mysterious guest frequently. Sometimes Castiel meets his gaze, those oceanic depths intense and stripping - but sometimes Castiel is oblivious and absorbed in his task, handsome, elegant, stunning.

Benny, of course, won’t answer any questions whenever Dean talks to him. Says that Castiel came from a rough life and deserves to have a little slice of Heaven, and Dean takes the compliment for what it is. But Benny’s not angry or gruff with his replies; his tone of voice leaves room for the ‘ask him yourself’, even though Dean knows better. His own time as a federal agent has made him naturally inquisitive and suspicious, and even though Castiel’s circumstances and life are shrouded in mystery, Dean also knows to trust his gut instinct. Castiel seems like a decent guy, if not a bit misunderstood and awkward. 

Running the b-and-b for the past few years has been just that. Running. Efficiently, at that. Wake up, start his and the guest’s day, run maintenance and chores, help the guests end their day, putter around a bit more with evening tasks, and then go to bed. Waking up with intent is different than waking up with purpose, and Dean had found himself falling into an endless cycle. Castiel’s arrival has flipped something, though; maybe it’s his quiet eagerness to help, his dry humor when Dean says something dirty, or his attentiveness to Doris on the weekends. Something about Castiel has Dean waking up with _intent_ \- intent to enjoy the day, enjoy the company, enjoy _life_.

It’s been a little over a month since Castiel arrived and Dean is smiling easier, joking more frequently (and less dirty), and people are taking notice. Benny, of course, notices but doesn’t say much. Dean’s weekly phone calls with Sam now end with Sam saying something along the lines of “I’m glad you’re doing good”, which roughly translates from Winchester-speak into “I’m glad you’re doing _better_ ”, and Dean appreciates it. 

He’s not looking at the world through rose-colored glasses. Castiel is still a weird dude and occasionally rubs Dean the wrong way, and sometimes they snap at each other over stupid things, but in general… it’s good.

Great, even. 

In the laundry room Dean bends to put a load of clothes into the dryer. He tosses in a dryer sheet and then shuts the door, reaching to hit the start button, taking a moment to inhale the wonderful scent of fresh linens. He turns around and nearly leaps out of his socks when Castiel is leaning against the doorframe, arms loosely folded over his chest, a thoughtful expression on his features. 

“Jesus,” Dean puts a hand on his chest to try and quell his thundering heart, “wear a bell or somethin’.” 

Castiel’s head tilts slightly, “You do not seem like a man that is easy to sneak up on.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean huffs at Castiel’s correct assumption, waving it away with a hand, “you seem like a guy who sneaks up on people _very_ easily.”

The tiny smile that quirks on Castiel’s lips reveals a snippet of information that Dean has been searching after, confirmation of Dean’s many hypothesis about who, and what, Castiel may have been before he came to the b-and-b. It’s insanely attractive.

“I have a question,” Castiel continues succinctly. When he gets this tone of voice Dean, by now, knows to brace himself. Castiel can be pretty blunt, has absolutely zero social grace, and has accidentally offended Dean on three separate occasions this week alone. 

“Shoot,” Dean says, leaning back against the tumbling dryer, enjoying the warmth radiating from the metal through his old AC/DC tee. Castiel hasn’t shaved in a few days, his perpetual 5 o’clock shadow having transformed into scruff speckled with salt and pepper.

“Why do you wear women’s panties?” 

Immediately Dean flushes - not in anger, but embarrassment. He really should wear a belt more often, he thinks to himself. Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he shrugs, deciding to be honest. “I like ‘em.” 

Castiel’s thoughtful gaze as he rakes it down Dean’s body has Dean igniting from the inside out. Everywhere Castiel’s eyes rove he feels electric sparks, the likes of which he hasn’t experienced for _years_ , and after a tense moment of silence, Castiel nods and straightens away from the doorjamb. “I see.” 

No offense. No insult. No… nothing, really. Just acceptance for Dean’s simple reasoning as to why he likes to wear women’s lingerie. It’s hard to swallow past the lump in his throat but Dean manages to do so, a reedy chuckle bubbling back up from his tumultuous chest. 

“Cool.” 

Castiel leaves the laundry room and Dean stares at the empty space in the doorway, trying to wrap his head around the situation. 

Alright. Castiel has seen Dean’s panties. He asked about them, instead of brushing it under the rug - and he asked about them in a plain, but respectful manner. Dean whuffs out a breathless laugh, wiping his brow with a hand. Typically when people find out he wears women’s panties he’s met with some sort of judgment. Because, surely, it’s a kinky thing, right? Or maybe he wears them so he can feel girly? Does he wear them all the time or just occasionally? Isn’t he worried about his masculinity being threatened?

Dean always waves off those questions, vexxed. 

It’s not a kinky thing - even though they _are_ pretty and feel nice against his skin. 

It’s not a girly thing - he doesn’t feel any sort of feminine when he wears them. He puts them on, they’re on his body, and that’s it. An article of clothing that he enjoys wearing simply because he enjoys it. 

He does wear them all the time. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he wore a pair of boxers. 

Hell, he’s got more than panties tucked away in his drawers.

He, in no way, is worried about his masculinity. He can pop open a beer cap with his bicep, knows how to change the oil of every car ever invented, chops his own wood, and can hold his own in a fight. As an FBI agent he’d been strong, formidable, and intimidating. 

Now, as the owner of his own bed-and-breakfast and a retired agent, Dean is just… Dean. Can do all those ‘manly’ things but can also crochet his own doilies, makes his own pie crust, and enjoys home decor. 

There is no defined box he fits in. And for some reason, people seem to have a difficult time accepting that. Dean often thinks about turning the tables on inquisitors, making them uncomfortable about their own preferences, but he knows better than that.

_He_ knows who he is. Stereotypes and judgment be damned. 

Castiel now knows who he is, too. And how could he not? After basically living with Dean for the past month Castiel has seen Dean do everything. Cook, clean, repair things that are broken, help Doris up and down the stairs, laundry, pour tea, grill steaks, and now… wear panties. For the first time that hidden aspect of Dean is in the open, in the air, information readily graspable and available and Castiel had taken it in stride, _accepted_ it, and moved on. 

Leaning heavily against the dryer, Dean lets out a slightly disbelieving chuckle. 

Who is Castiel Novak?


	3. Chapter 3

Nearly two months in, routine breaks.

Castiel doesn’t show up for breakfast after his run. Dean, at first, assumes that Castiel got held up chatting with some townsfolk over something or other. One of the cafes opens at the same time Castiel jogs by it; occasionally Castiel will come home with a treat for himself and something extra for Dean, and on those days they skip the lavish breakfast and instead enjoy their spoils on the back porch, Castiel sipping his tea and Dean nursing his third cup of coffee. 

But when another hour passes and Castiel is nowhere to be seen, Dean squashes down the paranoia in his gut and tries to think rationally. Even though Castiel helps Dean it’s usually during whatever the man deems as ‘free time’, when he’s not reading a book or penciling in a Sudoku book. He naps sometimes, or at least shuts himself in his room for hours at a time, and Dean respects that the man seems to generally keep to himself. 

The federal agent in Dean thinks something is grossly amiss, and the rational part of him tries to tamp down that worry by rationalizing that Castiel probably got caught up in something, distracted, and will be home soon. The man doesn’t _have_ to stick to a routine, he just… usually does. Dean occupies himself by pruning the rose bush Castiel normally tends to, but Cas does such a good job at the upkeep there’s not much for Dean to do outside of giving it a plentiful drink. He then kneels in his vegetable garden, pulling a few things here and there to check if anything is good to pluck out of the ground, but comes up short. 

Now he’s just antsy, and frustrated. 

The other day he’d mentioned to Castiel that the property, where unfenced, stretches back towards a creek. Dean owns the surrounding land, rents out a few houses to the locals, and the creek is something he usually doesn’t inform guests of. It’s about a mile and a half away from the safety of the b-and-b, and old habits die hard, so Dean tends to keep his guests shepherded and close. No one’s any the wiser about it, and Dean’s conscience stays clear of worry.

However, he’d let it slip to Castiel, who’d seemed intrigued. Dean had felt bad that Castiel seemed cooped up; he helps Dean frequently, but Dean still knows the man is buzzing with unfettered tension, cabin fever starting to eke into his daily routine. Castiel is one of the most still, serene people Dean has ever met, but for the past week Dean has caught his knee jiggling, his lip between his teeth, fingers drumming. So he’d mentioned the creek, knowing Castiel could find some solitude out there where he can stretch his legs. Logically, Dean knows that’s probably where Castiel is. 

Worry wins out, though. Dean pulls a flannel over his t-shirt and puts on his good boots, clomping out the back door and down the steps to head into the woods. The deeper into the trees he gets the cooler the air turns, the humidity clinging to the air molecules creating a pleasant contrast to the heat that beats down on the b-and-b. Castiel could be anywhere along the creek, so Dean heads to the point of the water closest to the house, figuring he can just walk along the length of the creek until he comes across Castiel.

If he comes across Castiel.

Once he reaches the water, Dean takes a moment to slide his hands into the pockets of his pants and glance around at the scenery. A slight breeze ruffles the canopy of the trees but the air remains undisturbed at ground level. The sun barely dots through the lush leaves, a few sunbeams catching on ripples of the water and sending pretty reflections up onto the lower hanging branches on either side of the bank. The creek itself is about six feet across and two feet deep, perfect for horsing around and splashing in. Dean has fond memories of him and Sam spending lazy summer afternoons out here, taking turns foraging for berries and mushrooms for their mom and cooling off in the chilly water. Heading west, Dean takes his hands out of his pockets so he can pay attention to his steps, a storm earlier in the summer having knocked down quite a few trees and branches. It’s been a long time since Dean has come out here. Could use a little grooming. 

He walks for about twenty minutes before he finally sees Castiel. The man is perched on a patch of grass, his legs folded in front of him in a meditative pose, palms facing up where they rest on his knees. Spine straight, chin tucked, Castiel’s eyes are closed. Dean’s quiet as he watches the man’s chest rise and fall with deep, measured breaths, and Dean suddenly feels stupid for worrying about the man. Castiel can take care of himself. He’s smart and resourceful and clearly comes from a past that left him with many skills. Being alone in the woods next to a creek shouldn’t have been cause for alarm, but old habits die hard, and Dean’s always been protective. 

Here there’s a wide sun beam bathing Castiel, the rays breaking evenly through a hole in the tree canopy. Castiel’s dark hair is aflame with gold, his tan skin glowing with suffused radiance. Dean bets that if Castiel’s eyes were open, they’d be clearer and bluer than the stream he’s sitting in front of. Dean takes a moment to enjoy the scene and commit it to memory. He wishes he would have thought to bring his phone; Castiel looks so at peace, young again, free of worry or concern. 

Quietly, Dean approaches. He’s nearly silent over fallen branches and leaves, years of training lending a hand to his undetected approach. He doesn’t want to disturb Castiel, he wants to drag out this peaceful moment, knows that Castiel needs this peace, needs this stillness. 

Hating to interrupt, but suddenly feeling the suffocating desire to have Castiel’s attention, Dean reaches out as soon as he’s within good distance, his fingertips bumping against the curve of Castiel’s shoulder. 

The reaction is instantaneous. One of Castiel’s hands whip up to grab Dean’s wrist, twisting and yanking him forward. Leveraging himself up on his knees Castiel uses incredible strength to use Dean’s weight against him and toss him cleanly over his shoulder, Dean landing on his chest on the soft, lush, mossy grass, the wind knocked out of him as Castiel straddles his ass and holds his wrist in a vice grip against the small of his back, his other hand on Dean’s head to smush his face into the ground. 

“Dean?” Castiel sounds bewildered.

“Surprise?” Dean huffs out, disturbing a stray leaf by his mouth.

Castiel doesn’t scramble - he’s much more graceful than that - but he gets off of Dean quickly, immediately reaching down to help him up. He doesn’t look chagrined or embarrassed as Dean settles on his butt on the slightly damp ground, Castiel on his feet as they stare at each other silently. Leaning back on his hands, Dean lets out a little chuckle, a crooked smile quirking his lips even though his heart is pounding wildly in his chest.

“Guess I should wear a bell too, huh?” 

“What are you doing here?” Castiel asks. There’s no anger in his voice, just genuine confusion as to why Dean is suddenly here in this peaceful shrine he put up for himself. 

“Got worried,” Dean admits. 

Frowning, Castiel carefully lowers himself to the ground next to Dean. He crosses his legs again but rests his hands on his ankles, staring out at the water as it lazily drifts by. “My apologies, Dean. I should have told you where I was going.” 

“S’fine,” Dean reassures Castiel, deciding to completely omit the fact he’d nearly been beside himself with worry. “You meditating?” 

Castiel nods, eyes still on the water. His pink lips quirk slightly. The sun catches on his eyelashes. “I am the most at peace I have ever been.” 

Dean stays quiet. Castiel doesn’t really talk about his emotions or whatever, and Dean never pushes, but he _is_ curious. What makes Castiel tick? What is he thinking? How is he feeling? Dean catches glimpses in Castiel’s dry jokes and occasionally in the depths of his eyes when their gazes catch, but Castiel is still wrapped up in mystery. So for now, Dean stays quiet, hoping Castiel will let him in. Just a little bit. 

“I am… purging,” Castiel says slowly. “The life I left behind… it had to come to an end, eventually. I did not anticipate that I would be alive to see the end, however.” His fingers slide up the length of his denim-clad calves to his knees, gently curling around the curve of them. “Everything was predestined for me. I did what I was told. A cog in the machine. I never strayed. Not because I feared death... “ his head tilts back, and sure enough the sun catches his eyes, brightening them to nearly the same hue of the sky above. “...but because I feared myself. There was never a point in my life, for the past twenty years, where I thought I deserved this.” He gestures with a hand towards their surroundings. 

Dean chews on the information. Alright, so Castiel had been special forces of some kind. Dean sees it now - the haunt in his eyes, the guard in his frame. Not to mention being laid on his ass just for surprising the guy. Dean’s seen enough ‘professionals’ in his life to consider himself to have a good eye for them, but Castiel had slipped beneath his radar. Maybe it’s because he’s so awkward, quirky even, and… Dean hates to say it, because he’s up there too, but… old. Castiel must have truly been good at whatever it is he did, not only to come out alive, but to have done it for so long. 

Whatever opinion Castiel has of himself, Dean takes stock of the man sitting next to him. This man is peaceful, calm. Kind without prompting, intelligent and soft underneath his awkward exterior. This looks like a man weary of the world, but not weary of life. And of course he’s not- he escaped out into nature to _meditate_ after feeling cooped up. Castiel may not think he deserves what’s being laid out in front of him, but he seems to be doing his best to take it in stride, and Dean admires that. 

“When I retired from the FBI,” Dean starts. He doesn’t miss the way Castiel looks at him out of the corner of his eye, like he knew that little tidbit without Dean offering it, “I didn’t know what to do. It was like… being a starving kid at a buffet. All these things I’d always wanted or dreamed of put in front of me, within reach, and then an adult next to me saying ‘have at it’.” He wipes his hand over his mouth, shifting to sit criss-cross. He wonders how Castiel can lay his ankles over each other like they are. “I’ve always loved people, though. Knew I wanted to continue working with ‘em. Protecting ‘em. Providing for ‘em. I’m not really cut out to be a dad,” he lets out a slightly self-deprecating laugh, “or a husband, for that matter, but I’m good at takin’ care of people. My parents ran this b-and-b for twenty years. After they died, Sammy and I tried to figure out what we wanted to do with it. But then I retired, and I had nothin’ to do, so… I came here. Fixed it up. Put my heart and soul into it, man. Brought it back to its glory days- brought it back up to my mom’s standards. Somethin’ she’d be proud of, y’know?

“Anyway, for a while I had a hard time accepting that this was my life. Pretty apple pie compared to arresting felons and going on nation-wide man-hunts. I kept thinking the other shoe was gonna drop. That all this’d be ripped out from me and I’d be back in some sort of pit again.” Dean smiles softly, eyes on the water, watching the sun twinkle across a few of the ripples. “But that hasn’t happened. And I don’t think it’s gonna. I love this place. I love my guests. And hey,” he lets out a slightly brighter laugh, “it’s probably the safest b-and-b in the damn country.” He starts fidgeting idly with the mossy grass in front of him. “What I’m tryna say is… it takes more than a month or two to realize that things are different. That you’re different. That there’s a road ahead of you that doesn’t lead directly to Hell, paved with blood and violence.” He shifts his gaze over towards Castiel, feeling his stomach flip pleasantly when he sees the man’s gaze focused on him. Offering a wry smile, Dean shrugs. “In my opinion, this is as good a’ place as any for you to figure yourself out. A good place to start over.” _Like me_ goes unsaid, but Dean knows that Castiel understands the implication.

Silence settles over them. They both stare at the babbling creek, some birds singing in the trees around them. After about ten minutes, Castiel stretches his legs out and then, very hesitantly, reaches out to rest his palm on Dean’s knee. It’s huge and warm, the weight of it seeping through Dean’s jeans, and even though he feels hot, goosebumps spring over his skin. Turning his head a bit, their eyes catch, the sun having moved from its spot in the sky and allowing the trees to finally cast shadows over Castiel’s face. His eyes are less haunted, the lines in his face softened, and there’s a faint, almost shy smile on his lips. 

“Thank you, Dean.” 

Dean smiles back in reply, before he settles back on his hands again, tipping his head back and inhaling deeply. They fall back into silence, this one much more comfortable and light than before, and Dean relishes in it. 

Castiel Novak is like Dean, he realizes.

Just trying to find his place in the world.

\--*--

After Dean’s little confessional by the creek, Castiel takes care to spend more time with him. He’d suspected that Dean was retired law enforcement of some kind, but he finds a sort of kindred spirit with him after learning he was an agent. Police officers are bound by the law and government, of course, but the things that one sees on the federal versus state level can be the difference between retiring on a ranch or retiring in a home. Dean seems to be an outlier all his own, fashioning himself this life at the b-and-b, settling into domesticity like he was always meant to be there, despite the fact he has clearly experienced quite a bit in this world, and most of it ugly. 

Though contracted by the government, Castiel was much further off the reservation than Dean probably realizes. And yet, Dean doesn’t treat Castiel any differently. The unspoken ‘I was a hired assassin’ had hung heavy between them for only a beat before Dean had accepted it and moved on. The picture of ‘water under the bridge’. They were at these specific points in their lives for a reason, Dean surely thought, and so there was no need to try and dissect Castiel and his past. 

It’s this that draws Castiel back into Dean’s orbit. He starts helping Dean with things other than lawn care and maintenance; Dean teaches Castiel how to arrange the flowers that grow from the garden, explains why he chose what color palette for each room inside the house, and on one weekend he even helps Dean put curlers in Doris’ wispy white hair. Dean is truly a jack of all trades all across the board, knows a little about a lot, and is always open and excited to learn new things. Like when Doris asks him with help painting her nails in exchange for hearing about her exploits in Italy with a lesson in language, or when a newlywed couple shyly asks Dean if he can teach them how to weave a basket in exchange for the wife to instruct Dean on how to make an all natural cleaning agent using things he already has in the house. Dean does all of these tasks with gusto, happy to help, teach, and learn in turn, and seeing that happiness reflected in other’s faces is all Castiel needs to see in order to feel it within himself. 

Dean had mentioned that he wasn’t husband or father material, and that information coupled with the fact Dean runs the b-and-b alone lets Castiel know that he’s single, and has been for quite a while. The ex-agent has his own mysteries; Castiel would like to hear about the criminals he caught, the ones that got away. He wants to know what college Dean went to, if he did at all; he wants to hear more about this brother he occasionally mentions. He wants to hear about his mom, of whom he always refers to fondly and lovingly, and wishes desperately to ask about the virtually absent mentions of his father. These are all boundaries that Castiel will not cross. Instead, he gathers the information like he usually does, through observation and sifting through the information Dean readily gives him. 

There’s one thing, though, that Castiel hasn’t asked about again, simply because he’s been so caught up in his own head about it since the initial conversation.

The panties.

Castiel doesn’t think Dean strange for his preference. Dean likes them, so he wears them. It’s fairly cut and dry. But seeing occasional peeks of pink, green, blue, purple - Castiel finds himself wondering… what it’s _like_ , to be oneself so freely. So openly. Castiel knows that Dean doesn’t necessarily hide his preference, but he also doesn’t bring it up. If guests catch sight of his colorful panties they say nothing, but no one really pretends that it didn’t happen, either. It’s an odd symbiosis inside the b-and-b, that whatever happens within the walls, happens, and it’s best to just let it. 

Often he finds himself wondering why Dean likes them so much. They’re pretty, surely. The fabric they’re made of must be comfortable. Dean has an eye for well-crafted things, ranging from blankets to doilies to furniture, and even though he wears threadbare shirts and worn jeans, it’s that attention to detail that likely draws Dean’s eyes to panties in the first place. It makes sense. But now Castiel’s attention is on panties and he’s just… curious.

On a sunny afternoon, no guests in the house save for Castiel, he approaches Dean in the kitchen where he’s currently squeezing lemons into a large pitcher. There’s a canister of sugar next to him and a bouquet of lavender flowers resting prettily on the counter and a pot filled with steaming water, Dean bobbing his head along to the quiet Metallica currently filtering through the kitchen speakers. He glances up when he sees Castiel and sends him a welcoming grin, gesturing at the stools on the other side of the island.

“Heya, Cas.” 

The casual greeting warms Castiel and makes him a bit braver as he sits down. He rests his forearms on the island, lacing his fingers together loosely, and then decides to not beat around the bush. “Why do you like wearing panties?” 

Dean’s green eyes bounce up from where he’s carefully picking apart the lavender petals, a brow arching. The sun is angled to shine through the back doors, rays bouncing off of the few ceramics Dean has laying about for decoration, his freckles highlighted on his skin as he regards Castiel through his golden lashes. “I told you,” he says, no accusation or irritation in his voice, “I like ‘em.”

“Yes,” Castiel wrings his fingers idly. “Forgive me for being uncouth. I… would like to know what the appeal is.” 

A little smirk filters over Dean’s plush lips as he starts sprinkling the lavender into the pot of steaming water. “Whaddya think the appeal is?” 

Castiel knows it’s not a rhetorical question, so he licks his lips and replies. “Comfort. Versatility. The feel of the fabric, the shape.”

Nodding a little, Dean grabs a wooden spoon to start stirring the water, soaking the lavender petals fully. “Alright. Sure, that’s what’s physically appealing about ‘em.” There’s only warmth and openness in Dean’s gaze when he asks, “But why do _I_ like them?” 

Tonguing the inside of his cheek, Castiel bends an elbow to press his thumb idly to his lower lip in thought. He watches the lavender petals swirl around in the whirlpool of steaming water, lost in thought. When Dean picks puts the spoon down to grab a lemon and pull over his hand juicer, Castiel finally speaks. “Because they do not define you, but they… enhance you.”

Dean arches a brow, pausing in grinding a lemon half over the metal bullet, clearly waiting for Castiel to continue. 

“I’ve noticed that you do not adhere to any societal gender norms,” Castiel says by way of explanation. “It would make sense that you would not restrict yourself to certain types of clothing.”

“Easier to wear panties under my jeans than flounce around the house in a dress,” Dean concedes, not an ounce of shame in his tone of voice or body language as he continues to juice the lemons. 

“Do you like dresses?” Castiel finds himself asking.

Dean nods. “They feel just as nice as panties. And man, don’t get me started on yoga pants. Like wearing a skin-tight blanket.” 

Castiel finds himself chuckling, imagining Dean wearing a vast array of women’s clothing, pleased when his mind’s eye provides him with an image of Dean that’s just as captivating as the man standing right in front of him. They fall into easy silence, the fragrant aroma of the lavender spindling from the hot sugar water and permeating the air. It’s a soft contrast against the sharp tang of the juiced lemons, Castiel watching Dean’s practiced hands create something from scratch with ease and grace. It doesn’t take much longer for Dean to combine all of the ingredients in the pitcher and put it away to soak, and then Castiel is offering to help with dinner. Together they make spaghetti, a recipe Dean reveals to be his late mother’s, and then after the kitchen is cleaned they sit together out on the back porch to enjoy their lavender lemonade and the sunset. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says when the cicadas start singing.

“For what?” Dean asks. They’re sharing the porch swing, the cushions soft beneath their bodies, Dean’s feet pushing it to rock gently as Castiel sits with his knees to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. There’s six inches of space between them, and Castiel feels warm.

“For sharing with me something that you don’t seem privy to share with anyone else,” Castiel replies softly.

“Well,” there’s a false sense of bravado in Dean’s voice when he says, “I figure you don’t give a crap what goes on under my clothes. You don’t seem to be judgmental about too much at all, actually.” 

“People are entitled to like what they like,” Castiel says. Dean’s bluster always catches him off guard and makes him wonder how often Dean uses it to blunder through day to day life with people he doesn’t necessarily trust. “I imagine that your time as a federal agent stifled a lot of your… wants. How you choose to express yourself now that you are retired is no one’s business but your own.”

Dean falls quiet for a moment, and then draws his legs up to sit criss cross. “Damn right it ain’t.” 

“In any case,” Castiel continues. “I want nothing more than for you to feel like yourself around me. You don’t need to hide behind pretenses.” 

He can feel Dean’s gaze on him for a few seconds, before he turns his head to meet it. Dean’s brow is furrowed slightly, lips parted, his shoulders slightly tense; but after a second of eye contact he whuffs out a little laugh, shaking his head and reaching out to clap Castiel on the shoulder. The warmth bleeds through his shirt instantly. 

“Thanks, Cas.” 

Later that night after Castiel does a round of laundry (he refuses to let Dean do his laundry, continuously trying to find ways to lighten Dean’s load, especially since he’s a long-term guest), he’s surprised to see a small box on the bed. Dean had gone to town after sunset, saying he had a few errands to run, and Castiel hadn’t heard his car return over the rumble and tumble of the dryer. Setting down his basket Castiel sits on the edge of the bed and picks up the box, examining it. It’s white, no words or pictures on it, and incredibly light, not quite as large as a shoebox, square in shape. Delicate, almost. Running his fingers along the edges of the lid Castiel opens it carefully. Setting the lid aside he’s greeted with black tissue paper folded neatly, and Castiel gently starts pulling it apart. 

His heart leaps into his throat when he sees the contents of the box. 

Neatly, pristinely displayed, are a pair of panties, the price tag still attached. They’re orange in color - not a bright, offensive orange, but creamsicle with white lace lining the waistband. Breath stopped up in his lungs, Castiel rests the box on his thighs and uses both hands to pull the panties out of the box, feeling their weight and texture in his fingers. Cotton. Breathable. Soft. He stretches and pulls them, testing their elasticity, and then checks the tag. The size is listed as large, but Castiel knows that a women’s large is very different from a man’s large. Are these specially made?

Chewing his lip, he sets the box aside and stands. It’s obvious that Dean got these for him, took the time to pick these out specifically. The tag and the receipt are in the box, surely Dean’s way of ensuring no harm no foul if he’d misread Castiel’s questions. But… he hadn’t misread the situation at all. Castiel hadn’t even realized what he set himself up for.

Setting the panties on the bed with a reverence he didn’t know he had, Castiel starts stripping himself of his clothes. Standing naked in his room shouldn’t feel this exposing - he doesn’t have an audience, after all - but knowing that Dean had offered these panties, fully knowing and expecting Castiel to put them on… Castiel’s skin prickles slightly. His fingers grab the panties and first hold them up to his waist, eyeballing the size from hip to hip. Width-wise, they look fine. Very carefully he hinges at the waist to bend and put his feet in the leg holes one by one, and then when he starts pulling the panties up the legs, he feels it.

The slide of fabric against his leg hair should maybe chafe or feel foreign. It doesn’t. As he draws the panties up his thick legs, the _shhhhk_ of the lace catching on his hair loud in the silent room, he feels a shiver wrack through his body. Bending his knees and spreading his legs a bit, he inches the panties up over his thick thighs. The fabric strains over his muscle and for a moment he worries that he’ll tear the leg holes, but as soon as that thought crosses his mind the panties clear the swell of his thighs and ass.

He lets out a breath.

He inhales shakily.

Adjusting his soft cock, Castiel situates the panties to make sure they’re on properly and perfectly. For a moment he stands straight with his head tipped back towards the ceiling, eyes closed as he absorbs the sensations. The cotton feels so soft against his skin, the way the panties are clinging to him feeling like… not a grope, because it’s not lewd, but something similar. Softer. A cradle. A caress. Swallowing thickly and turning towards the wardrobe, Castiel opens the left door so he can look at his reflection in the full-size mirror.

Breath stops in his throat. 

Against his tanned skin the creamsicle color looks vibrant as a spring flower. The white lace trim is stark yet delicate. And oh… _oh_ , how they look! Castiel slowly turns this way and that, eyes drinking up the way the bikini cut accentuates his hip bones, complements his thighs, shows off his ass. He doesn’t feel anything overtly sexual - his penis is still soft - but he feels an emotion that’s difficult to name.

Across his strong body is evidence of the hard life he led. Smatters of scars, all at various stages in history and healing, from dark, puckered pink to smooth white, decorate him from neck to toe. A bullet in the liver, a knife between the ribs, a baseball bat to the collarbone. Scars from weapons and scars from life saving surgeries. Castiel’s eyes normally catalogue every single one, drawing up the memory from a rolodex to relive the moment, his way of being grateful for the fact he is alive and able to retire from the life of a hired gun. He views his body as a weapon that ran its course, something he fuels and trains to keep on edge at all times, waiting for the next mission.

Today Castiel has none of those thoughts.

Today Castiel sees the scars and old wounds but he only sees them, doesn’t mourn them or prepare a mental eulogy for the artificial life he lost. He doesn’t view his body as a vessel, as something his conscience is merely occupying in order to complete a task - which is how he saw himself for so long, unsure of who, exactly, this body belonged to whenever he caught glimpses of it. Surely not him.

But it _is_ him. 

Standing in front of this mirror, wearing a delicate pair of poppy colored panties, Castiel feels something huge expand and swell in his chest.

This is Castiel Novak.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next two weeks Castiel is constantly in Dean’s space. He’d been helping out with random chores, but after the night Dean had left that gift on his bed, Castiel’s presence has basically tripled. He observes quietly, asks questions about how to do something, and eventually Dean caves and starts to let Castiel officially help with chores, following a bit more of a routine versus “hey this needs done, got a minute?”. 

Knowing now what little he does about Castiel’s past, idle tasks become that much more interesting as they complete them together. When Dean teaches Castiel how to make the perfect, flaky, buttery pie crust, he watches elegant hands spread and knead the dough, wondering how many lives those same hands have taken. Castiel is skilled in hand to hand, but most hired killers prefer and specialize with some sort of weapon. Was Castiel a knife guy or a gun guy? Or did he use some sort of signature weapon, like poison darts or fishing wire dipped in acid?

When Dean shows Castiel how to fire up the grill and smoke the briquettes to perfection, he wonders how many buildings Castiel burned down to cover up evidence. Fire is the most popular cleansing agent for contracted hits, and while Castiel is surely unique and smart, Dean knows that arson is, sometimes, unavoidable. He wonders if Castiel used explosives or matches, if he stayed to feel the heat of his crime or if he turned his back without remorse or a second thought. 

Even though Dean finds himself wondering about these things, he finds equal joy in measuring the Castiel in front of him. Ever since he gifted the man the panties, the perpetual tension in Castiel’s frame has lessened significantly, day by day. Like he’s getting more comfortable in his own body, like he’s finally starting to feel ok with this mundane life. Since arrival Castiel had been rigid and calculating, curt and stand-offish, but now Castiel is… softer. There’s no other word for it. His brow furrows in confusion, not anger; his fingers twitch with the need to help, not restlessness; Dean even heard him _laugh_ the other day.

Seeing Castiel unwind is more satisfying than, and just as beautiful as, watching a flower bloom and turn towards the sun. 

Elbow deep in suds, Dean is washing while Castiel is drying. They’ve been working in silence; Doris just left, White Diamonds in her wake, soft smiles on both of their faces. When Dean hands Castiel a bundle of forks their fingers brush, their gazes lifting to find one another. They don’t touch often, if at all. Friendly claps on the shoulder, steadying each other on a ladder or stool; outside of that, they don’t touch casually. This couldn’t really be considered casual, but it’s a new realm, the atmosphere around them warm and intimate from Doris’ laughter and cheek-pinching. 

Castiel takes the forks, wrapping them in the dish towel and shuffling them around to dry them. “I was wondering…” 

Dean doesn’t need to strain his ears, but he does anyway, always desperate to hang onto Castiel’s words, feel the richness of his voice fill every void in his body.

“The… panties.” Castiel doesn’t sound embarrassed, but he still speaks carefully. “Where did you purchase them?”

A smile spreads over Dean’s features. “There’s a little shop in the city. My friend Charlie owns it. A boutique for the counterculture, basically. She sells delicate items… for both men and women.”

He can hear the surprise in Castiel’s voice when he says, “Those panties were made for men?”

“Why d’ya think they fit so perfect?” Dean asks with a cheeky grin. “It’s a cool shop.” 

“Does she sell…” there’s a clink and a clatter as Castiel puts the dried silverware in the drawer. “...more than panties, for men?” 

Nodding, Dean hands Castiel a plate. “Yeah. She’s got all sorts of stuff and does custom fittings, too.” When Castiel takes the plate, Dean slows in washing the next one. “Tell you what. In the morning you can take the Ford into the city and check it out yourself.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience your vehicles,” Castiel replies automatically.

Dean rolls his eyes, turning to watch Castiel stretch slightly to put the dry plate in the cupboard. “S’not an inconvenience, Cas. Not plannin’ on hauling anything tomorrow so the truck is free.” 

Castiel takes the next plate and stares thoughtfully at it as he passes the dish towel around the edges, and then finally a small smile quirks the corners of his pink lips. His hair is tousled, his shoulders are relaxed, and Dean… well. Dean might be a little in love, naturally as blinking. Imagine that. “Thank you, Dean. I will go in the morning.” 

Unable to keep himself from smiling, Dean nods and feels an odd satisfaction. Getting Castiel the panties had been a gamble, but Dean’s instincts have always been pretty good - especially when it comes to finding like-minded people. Castiel is clearly comfortable and curious, and Dean is more than happy to help him out; after all, Dean himself had had to navigate this world all by himself until he found Charlie’s shop by accident. Having an ally has been indescribable, and knowing that he can be that for Castiel makes Dean feel… good.

He’s looking forward to what Castiel will find, tomorrow.

\--*--

_Charlie’s Boutique_ doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb from the other store fronts in the quaint downtown area of Columbia. During the forty-five minute drive Castiel had white-knuckled the steering wheel in a rare show of nerves; he thought about the store being pink and frilly, or maybe having **XXX** emblazoned on the door or windows - he had even thought that, if Columbia had a red light district, that the store would be located in the heart of it.

That isn’t the case, as Castiel pulls up to the address Dean had given him. It’s a standalone store amongst other boutiques, a soft yellow color with an inviting bright orange door. It sets itself apart from the other earthy-toned, quiet businesses that surround it, but it doesn’t give away any sort of illicit image. _Charlie’s Boutique_ is burned into a beautiful piece of cherrywood that hangs above the door, Castiel immediately recognizing it as Dean’s handiwork. Had he been conservative in revealing the closeness he has with Charlie? Why does that pinch a little deep down in Castiel’s gut?

Unable, and unwilling, to examine the strange feeling seeing Dean’s work on the storefront gives him, Castiel makes sure the old Ford is locked before he pockets the keys and heads up to the orange front door. There’s a sign that says _Come in, we’re open!_ , which he heeds, turning the knob and allowing himself into the store. 

Again, he’s underwhelmed. Nothing is loud or garish where it hangs on racks, there is no one waiting in a full body leather suit with a riding crop to humiliate Castiel into putting on a dress. He’s unsure where these wild assumptions had come from, but forty-five minutes in a vehicle with no radio or a/c likely lent to the strange directions Castiel’s thoughts traveled.

“Welcome!”, comes a cheery voice from the back. Castiel is still inside the entryway, his eyes drinking in everything around him. The place looks so… normal. “Oh! Hey, are you Mr. Novak?” 

Finally turning his attention towards the approaching person, Castiel immediately catalogues the woman as friendly, kind, welcoming. Despite the beautiful materials in the store and the lovely outfits meticulously hung on mannequins, the woman is wearing jeans with a rip in the knee and a Harry Potter t-shirt. Her red hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail with a few loose strands, her face free of makeup, and the kind of familial energy she radiates is very similar to Dean’s. All of his observations happen in the fraction of a second and when Charlie thrusts her hand out for a shake he doesn’t have anything to occupy his hands with, so he very hesitantly holds a hand out towards her. She takes control of the shake, her grip strong and sure, her fingertips calloused. She must be the one who does the alterations Dean had talked about. 

“Dean called ahead and told me you’d be stopping by today. I’m Charlie!” She says cheerily, letting go of Castiel’s hand in a way that suggests Dean may have mentioned something about Castiel’s aversion to touching strangers. She glances around the store to confirm their solitude, and then leans in and drops her voice sightly. “How did the piece he commissioned fit you? He said he didn’t have your measurements and was just guessing.”

Knowing that Dean has paid attention enough to Castiel’s physical being in order to suss out measurements for an intimate garment has Castiel’s head going a little light. Of course, given Castiel’s history, his observational skills are unparalleled. He could easily spout off Dean’s measurements from the top of his head without thinking too hard about it; and while Castiel knows that Dean is an ex-fed, he wonders what exactly Dean did in the bureau that warranted needing to pay so much attention to detail. Factor in that Dean had correctly assumed his _intimate_ measurements… Castiel’s throat starts to feel a little dry.

“It fits perfectly,” Castiel finally replies, pushing aside his existential crisis. Dean may easily move along whenever Castiel gets lost in his head, but Charlie is a stranger, and he would hate to frustrate or inconvenience her because he got caught up lollygagging in inappropriate thoughts about her friend. “I am interested in what other custom items you have available.”

Charlie’s eyes flash playfully, but not mockingly. “That depends on what you’re looking for!” She claps her hands and then turns around to gesture expansively at the boutique. “Dean really likes silk and lace so he leans towards more intimate pieces. He has exactly one dress and he wears it on special occasions, even though I try to sell him on more.”

Castiel wonders what special occasions a forty-year-old bachelor has when operating a harmonious bed and breakfast, but decides that Charlie probably doesn’t know, and that’s a question that he should perhaps ask Dean himself. “I am interested in… dresses.” He desperately wants to ask Charlie what kinds of intimate wear Dean prefers, but that would be an invasion of Dean’s privacy; the man is open enough when Castiel asks him questions, and he knows that if he’s ever curious enough, he could just ask and Dean would likely indulge him. “And more panties.” 

“Great!” Charlie starts walking towards the opposite wall, Castiel following quietly behind her. They pass through neatly organized racks of clothing and a few mannequins dressed appropriately for Sunday brunch. “To help you find the perfect dress I’m gonna ask you a few questions, ok? You can answer or not answer, I’m not here to make you uncomfortable - that’s literally the exact opposite of my goal with this store, heh - but it’s how I can best help you find exactly what you need. But I’m also more than happy to just pick something out that I think you’d like, as well!”

“I can answer questions,” Castiel decides. His voice is still soft and deep, the ambience of the boutique something he doesn’t want to shatter by being unnecessarily loud; not that he’s loud in the first place. The music playing overhead sounds like something out of a sci-fi movie and yet, somehow, it doesn’t detract from the place. 

“Cool,” Charlie turns towards him, the smile on her face indulgent and kind. Like this, Castiel could easily think that Charlie and Dean were siblings, or maybe cousins due to their drastically different looks. The auras they both put off are similar, and put Castiel at ease without effort. “Firstly, what appeals to you about a dress? Could be how it makes you feel, like, on the inside, or could just be about actual sensation, like fabric against your skin.”

Castiel takes a moment to consider. He recalls how the panties made him feel. Soft, gentle… not harmless, but something about wearing the panties and looking at his reflection made him feel more _human_. He didn’t look like the cold-blooded killer he’d had to be for the majority of his life, he didn’t look like he knew how to kill someone a dozen different ways with his bare hands. He just looked… like a person. No gender attached. He looked like a human with a past who, while wearing the panties, fell into a semblance of normalcy they’d never felt before. And the way the fabric had felt on his skin, dragging across the light dusting of hair over his thighs and groin - it had felt exquisite, but not necessarily in a sexual manner. 

“I feel… normal,” Castiel finally says, slowly, his gaze on a beautiful white sundress, the flowy fabric printed with pink and red roses and a few splashes of green leaves. “I am not sure of my preference for specific articles of clothing, but they make me feel… human.” 

Without elaborating any further, it seems as though Charlie fully understands him. Castiel wonders if she’d had this same conversation with Dean, whenever he came to her little boutique looking for something uniquely _him_. She nods and takes the open-ended direction Castiel had steered her in; he trusts that she will choose items that he will like. 

Trusts.

He trusts her.

Like he trusts Dean.

Like he trusts Doris, and the other guests that have Dean’s seal of approval.

Castiel realizes he trusts Charlie, trusts the guests, because Dean trusts them.

He’s not sure why he trusts Dean so implicitly, but handing over trust and respect to the man is as easy as breathing. The easiest thing Castiel has ever done in his complicated life. Surely there’s a lot to unpack there, but Castiel settles into the sensation of trusting someone and being taken care of, feeling the same warmth that blossomed in him while wearing the panties take hold of him here in _Charlie’s Boutique_ , Charlie herself flitting around and draping various pieces over her bent arm. 

Once she has a mountain of fabric draped over her arm she corrals Castiel towards the fitting rooms with a slightly apologetic smile. Only slightly, because that playful shimmer is back in her soft eyes. “I gotta have you try ‘em on in-store, because if I gotta alter something it’s easier for me to take care of it here and then ship the clothes off to you.” 

“Of course,” Castiel says indulgently. Listening to Charlie mumble to herself while she picked out pieces had lured Castiel into a sense of calmness, the closer they got to the back of the store and the fitting rooms revealing burning incense. Patchouli. Castiel feels good, maybe even at ease, and he would hate to break the spell by being difficult towards Charlie. 

Charlie hangs up the items on the many hooks inside the changing room stall. There are three stalls, each quite large - six feet by five feet, by Castiel’s quick estimation - with solid walls between the rooms but doors made of thick curtains. Inside the stall is a large mirror that takes up the entire space of the back wall, split into thirds with the outside panels angled slightly inwards so whomever is standing in front of their reflection can see everything from all angles. There’s a bench, a stool, and a small empty basket labeled ‘hangers’. 

“Here we go,” Charlie says, stepping out of the stall and sending Castiel a wide smile. “If a piece fits, put it on this side of the fitting room,” she gestures to their right, “and if it doesn’t fit, come out and show me and I’ll help ya out.” 

Nodding, Castiel moves into the fitting room, Charlie drawing the curtain closed behind him. For a moment he stares at the hanging items in perplexity, having a brief moment of indecision. Is this what he wants? Is this… who he is? He turns towards the mirror as he pulls off his v-neck, his gaze landing on his reflection. The scars and pockmarks from his sordid past stand out against his skin, and dressed in jeans, a belt, and boots, they look… awful. Garish. Rough. He quickly unclasps his belt, bends to undo his boots, and then strips down to his underwear, boxer briefs today. He folds his clothes neatly on the bench and then straightens to regard his reflection again; the blemishes on his skin are still visible, but nearly naked, they seem a bit… softer. Just a smidge. 

He carefully pulls the first dress off of the hanger. It’s spaghetti strap, coral in color, the fabric light and breezy. The breast of the fabric runs straight across, no illusion of feminine curves, and at the waist the fabric flares out in a way that reminds Castiel of flowing water. He unzips the low back of the dress and then very carefully pulls it down over his head, hands gently smoothing the material as it cascades around him. Reaching behind himself he pulls up the zipper, thankful that it’s in a spot where he can easily zip it up fully, and once he’s settled he turns towards the mirror, a soft gasp falling from his lips.

He is… transformed.

The coral color is brilliant against his tan skin. The cut of the dress does not hide his masculine shape, but it doesn’t enhance or detract from it, either. It’s not a feminine cut, Castiel’s broad chest still very much not breasts no matter how the fabric hugs him, and the hem of the dress gently billows against his shins, a few inches below his knees. This one fits perfectly, which he’s thankful for, and he takes a moment to turn this way and that in the three-way mirror, admiring how he looks from all angles. 

His scars fade away. Any marks on his skin leftover from the bloody days left behind disappear, leaving just… Castiel. In a lovely dress. His strong hands smooth down the material and he feels it shift against his stomach and the tops of his thighs, a slow breath leaving his lungs.   
Beautiful.

Castiel feels beautiful.

He wishes he didn’t have to take off the dress, but there are a dozen more calling out to him, louder than before. With great care and precision he begins trying them on one by one, examining them in the mirror. Most of them fit nearly perfectly, alterations unnecessary. Different patterns, colors, cuts - long, short, flowy, tight. Castiel loves everything he tries on. He leans towards the brighter colors and patterns, so opposite of his regular daily wear of earth tones and black black black, and he feels radiant in every single one.

Lastly, the white sundress with the red and pink roses is sitting innocently on the final hanger. Castiel, naked because his underwear lines were detracting from the dresses, reaches out to slip his fingers along the fabric. He’s touched that Charlie brought it into the room, touched that she had seen him eyeballing it. None of the other dresses in the fitting room are white, and this one stands out like a rose amongst a blizzard. Castiel pulls it off the hanger and examines the back of it. There’s pink ribbon laced in a loose corset zigzag, the tendrils untied and loose as they flow along the skirt of the dress. There is a zipper hidden in the seam on the side of the dress, the thick straps designed to be off-the-shoulder. 

Castiel is much more careful about putting on this dress than the others. Once he has it on he pulls up the zipper and then chews his lower lip, frowning as he reaches behind himself. He angles his body so he can see his back in the mirrors, working his fingers to pull the ribbon taut and do his best to tie it off. It’s not impossible, and thankfully he’s dextrous enough to succeed, but the brief thought of wishing someone else could do it passes through his mind, surprising him. His fingers fall away and then he turns to face the mirrors proper, reaching up to adjust the shoulder straps. They’re tight - they fit fine if left straight, but the design of the dress calls for them to drape around the curve of Castiel’s shoulder, which is simply too thick for the fabric to drape easily across.

Straining his ears, Castiel finds that it’s still only himself and Charlie inside the boutique. He draws back the curtain and finds her at the nearby counter boxing up some items, her head bobbing along to the music playing softly through the space. 

“Charlie,” Castiel calls softly, not wanting to startle her.

She glances up from her task, the smile filtering over her features bright and excited. “Oh my glob, you look fantastic!” Shuffling out from behind the counter she strides over quickly, reaching up immediately towards where the straps are straining over the curve of Castiel’s deltoids. “Hmm, pretty tight in here.” She tugs on the fabric, her gaze sweeping over the rest of the dress clinically. “Everything else looks great though. How did the others fit?”

“Very well, thank you,” Castiel says. “You have a good eye.”

She flashes a satisfied grin, “Wouldn’t be in the right business if I didn’t! If this is all I’ve got to alter I can get it to you tomorrow. Dean usually comes to town on Fridays to buy groceries so I can give it to him to bring back to you.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says. It should be nerve-wracking, wearing a dress in front of someone, but Charlie’s can-do attitude and casual air have all of Castiel’s insecurities melting away. 

Charlie pats his bicep and then turns so she can head back to the counter. Castiel returns to the dressing room, pulling the curtain closed so he can gently remove the dress. He puts on his jeans, boots, belt, and shirt, and feels like an alien in his own skin. He avoids looking at his reflection in the mirror as he separates the dresses into ‘want’ and ‘do not want’; there’s a small peg on the back of the door labeled ‘no thanks!’, where Castiel puts the three dresses that didn’t appeal much to him visually. They’re beautiful, no doubt, but he’d chosen dresses in coral, yellow, sky blue, pink, and various patterns. The dresses that he hadn’t been terribly fond of were black, red, beige. Boring. Uninteresting. 

Heading out of the stall one last time, his prizes draped over his arm, he approaches the counter. Charlie beams at him as she helps him lay down the dresses, and then she gestures towards the boxes. 

“Pick seven,” she instructs.

Castiel opens the top box, eyeing the panties folded neatly amongst the tissue paper. “Are these…?”

“A gift,” Charlie says firmly. “All of those are your measurements and great cuts for being invisible under dresses.”

Feeling warmth radiate through his bones, a warmth borne of gratefulness and humility, Castiel carefully starts peeking into the boxes while Charlie rings up the dresses. Money isn’t an issue, thankfully; when one works for over twenty years and never takes a vacation, the dollars rack up quite nicely. He ends up choosing ten and tells Charlie he’ll pay for the other three, which she accepts as she starts bagging things up. The paper shopping bags for the boutique are plain and white, no emblem or logo on them to reveal where they came from, and Castiel is thankful for the anonymity. Not that anyone would be paying attention to him for any reason, but he’s always able to appreciate discretion.

With the reassurance that Dean will be bringing Castiel his (favorite) dress tomorrow, Charlie bids Castiel goodbye, and tells him that he’s welcome back at any time. Driving back to the bed and breakfast Castiel feels lighter than air, and more than once he catches himself smiling at nothing in particular. 

Pulling into the driveway, Castiel is unsurprised to see that there are no other guests checked in. He occasionally wonders how Dean stays in business, but figures that sometimes the universe lets good things be good things, and decides that it’s none of his business how Dean manages to stay afloat. He grabs his bags, all six of them, and then exits the truck to head up the back steps that lead up to the kitchen door. It takes a bit of shuffling to make sure he won’t drop any of the bags before he can open the screen door, the hinges squeaking slightly to announce his presence. 

Dean isn’t in the kitchen, and Castiel tries not to be disappointed. The house is large, as are the grounds; Dean could be anywhere, and it’s not like he would be waiting for Castiel to come home. Trekking towards the laundry room, Castiel heeds Charlie’s instruction of gently washing his newly purchased items first thing. But that’s where he finds Dean, standing at the folding table and bopping along to some rock music playing from his phone, which is tucked into his back pocket.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean nearly jumps out of his skin, slamming his hands on the table and tensing as he shoots Castiel a glare. “Jesus Christ, Cas, don’t do that!”

Clamping down on his amusement, Castiel replies gravely, “My apologies.” 

Puffing his cheeks, Dean picks up the towel he’d been folding. “What’s up?” He turns his gaze back towards Castiel, his eyes dropping to the bags in his hands. He whistles. “Hooked you up, huh? You lookin’ to wash ‘em?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and then after a moment’s contemplation, “will you help me? I don’t want to ruin anything.”

Expression softening, smile widening, Dean nods. There’s a large window in the laundry room, the laundry room itself big enough to comfortably fit a washer, dryer, folding table, and linen closet while still being spacious enough that Castiel and Dean can occupy it without being on top of each other. The sun is shining through the window, highlighting Dean’s freckles and the sparkle in his eyes as he says, “Yeah, c’mere. I’ll show you.”

There’s no embarrassment inside Castiel when Dean helps him pull the dresses out of the bags. They remove the tags, adjust zippers, untie sashes and ribbons. Dean shows Castiel which button to press on the smart washer so that nothing else needs to be pressed in order to gently and efficiently wash the delicates, and he shows Castiel which detergent and fabric softener he prefers to use for them, different bottles than what he uses on linens and ‘regular’ clothes. After they get the dresses loaded in the washer Dean shows Castiel what buttons to push on the smart dryer to ensure that nothing shrinks or gets wrinkled, and by color and style suggests which dresses Castiel should hang to dry, versus using the machine. 

It’s all very informative. Deans says Castiel can use the same settings to wash his panties, though he suggests washing the panties separately from the dresses. He explains that if Castiel is short on time he can use a lingerie bag - a netted bag with a zipper that he pulls out of a drawer inside the closet - to put his panties in and toss in alongside his dresses to wash them safely and make sure nothing gets snagged. 

Castiel listens attentively. Dean is a natural teacher, someone who enjoys explaining things to others and helping them learn a new skill. For Castiel, someone who is so used to being proficient at everything he’s tasked to, it’s quite a novel experience. He can do recon on a politician, he can assassinate someone from three miles away, he knows how to disarm virtually any explosive… but learning things like how to harvest pecans, or wash panties, or flip a pancake without a spatula are things he treasures. Enjoys. Cherishes. 

The fact that it’s Dean teaching him sweetens the deal.

Dean finishes folding the towels and spare sheets, and Castiel helps him stack them in his arms so he can go put them away in their proper cupboards. He sends Castiel a soft, kind smile, leaving behind a bone-deep warmth within Castiel once he’s gone. 

That night he settles into bed wearing a pair of boy shorts and nothing else, the softness of the blankets resting over his skin muted in contrast with the way the panties hug and hold him. 

He feels more like himself than he has in perhaps his whole life.

He finally feels like Castiel Novak.


	5. Chapter 5

The willow tree in the front yard has been dead for about ten years. The whipping branches lay limp, the trunk rotten from humidity and crumbling from passing storms, and Dean has been putting off removing it. Many memories are woven between the hanging, swinging branches of the tree - good and bad. The good memories are filled with him and his brother, Sam, chasing each other around with branch-whips in their hands, doing their best to crack against each other’s bodies and leave marks behind; memories of his mother, Mary, spreading out a checkered blanket with all the fixings for a picnic, corralling her boys in for a lunch filled with laughter, dad joining in late and covered in dirt and leaves from harvesting fruits and nuts from the trees in the backyard. And the bad, or at least unpleasant, memories; Dean’s first girlfriend, Cassie, breaking up with him while they take shelter from a summer thunderstorm; finding out Sam would be traveling all the way to California for college, the big oaf tugging idly at the willow branches that swayed and carded through his long hair as he tried not to cry; and here was where Dean and Sam held a conference call with a lawyer to divide Mary and John’s belongings and estate after they’d both passed peacefully in their sleep. 

He stands before it now, hands on his hips, eyes taking in the sad image of all the branches cut off and cleared away, the smell of gas from the chainsaw hanging in the air and stuck in his nostrils. It’s a beautiful day, no breeze, quiet on the farm. The sound of a diesel engine reaches Dean’s ears and he pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket to mop up the sweat dripping down his head and the back of his neck, debating pulling off his soaked t-shirt, but thinking twice with the heat of the summer sun beating down on him. He’s sweating too much for sunscreen to stick and he doesn’t want to expose his back and chest to a sunburn. Turning towards the driveway he watches Benny’s beat up Chevy rumble up towards the house. He has a winch mounted on the front grill; Dean had asked to borrow it that morning, but Benny insisted on coming out and helping Dean himself. It has been a while since they’ve spent a good chunk of time together. The promise of cold beer on the front porch has Dean smiling as he approaches the truck.

“Howdy, brother,” Benny greets as he steps out of the truck. The door gives an atrocious squeak as he opens and closes it. He’s dressed in civvie clothes today, jeans and a t-shirt, poor boy cap on his head as he sends Dean a friendly smile. “Ready to pull this sucker up?”

“Treat her with respect,” Dean chides, although he’s grinning as he steps forward and clasps Benny’s hand, both of them pulling the other in for a warm hug. Benny doesn’t mind the slick of Dean’s body. They pull apart, Dean patting the winch affectionately. “Should get me one of these, but how often do I pull up tree stumps?”

“Not as often as the Sheriff,” Benny says with a hearty laugh. “Small town like this, all I do is yard work for the elderly and pull kittens outta trees.” 

Dean’s hand wings to slap against Benny’s ever-rounding stomach playfully, “S’good to be boss, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Benny swats at Dean’s hand, which is rubbing his belly like a lucky Buddha. “Quit it. Let’s get this stump up so I can enjoy some of your fine cookin’ and lemonade.” 

They work together harmoniously. The respect between them is great and cherished, Sheriff and ex-Fed, the fact that they genuinely get along only deepening their bond. Dean guides Benny once the chain is around the stump, using a shovel to hack at the stubborn roots that are clinging to the earth. It takes about an hour and a lot cursing to get the stump pulled free, and another hour to get it and all the pieces loaded up into the bed of Benny’s truck. Benny chainsaws whatever can’t fit easily and Dean works on using the shovel to fill in the hole with the dirt he’d bought, and overall it takes maybe three hours to get the job done. Pretty quick, compared to some other tree-related jobs Dean’s had.

After they’re all washed up, Dean grills a pair of paninis for lunch, pouring two fresh, tall glasses of lemonade. They sit on the back porch together on the swing, chatting about this and that, Dean listening with affection as Benny talks about the woes (and blessing) of having a teenage daughter. Once he’s updated Dean on everything in his life, he turns the question around to Dean.

“Things are great, man,” Dean reveals with a small smile. “The b-and-b is running at full capacity. Don’t got no new guests or nothin’, but the place is sailing. Cas is helpin’ out a lot.”

“That Cas is your long-term guest, right? The one that’s been here for a few months?” Benny asks. Dean turns to confirm the question, but he sees the playful glimmer in Benny’s eyes and immediately flushes, ignoring Benny and taking a deep drink of his lemonade. “Shoot, brother, y’only talk about him every time we’re on the horn. Sounds like a swell guy.”

“Yeah,” Dean grumbles, “he is.” He lifts a hand to scrub over his mouth. “Do I really talk about him that much?”

“Well,” Benny shrugs, “yeah. S’understandable since he’s your only long-term guest. At this point he’s practically a roommate. Y’ain’t got much else goin’ on. Also, hard to forget about a guy that got dropped off by a fed.” 

Dean rotates the glass in his hands, watching the ice clink together. “There’s… there’s somethin’ about him, Benny. He don’t feel like a guest or a roommate. Sometimes I can’t remember what it was like before he got here.” He tilts his head back a bit, staring at the ceiling of the porch. “What was I doin’ before him?” 

“Goin’ through the motions,” Benny answers kindly. He shifts his body so he can face Dean better on the swing. “Listen, brother. I know you’re allergic to emotions an’ all that but I gotta give it to you straight: since this Cas fella has been ‘round, you’ve been happier than I’ve seen you in a long time. I know you’re lonely out here, Dean, and it kills me that y’ain’t got no one. But this Cas? Sure sounds like he’s somethin’, some _one_ special. Don’t fight it or hide from it.” The smile on Benny’s face widens. “Wanna put on one of those girly green face masks and ask me if I think he likes you back?” 

Dean scowls and reaches out to hit his knuckles against Benny’s hip. “Shaddup.”

“Dean?” 

Speak of the devil. Castiel’s deep, inquisitive voice echoes through the house and alerts Dean and Benny of his presence before the back screen door swings open, the hinges creaking. Castiel appears, wearing yoga pants and a stretched out t-shirt that falls off of one shoulder, a plain white headband pushing his hair up and away from his forehead. Dean tenses a bit - he’d helped Castiel get comfortable in his body with the clothes he likes to wear, but it’s all been private, and now Benny is here, and Castiel is dressed like that and they’re meeting for the first time, actually, and-

“Oh. Hello.”

-Castiel is totally unbothered.

Because of course he is.

Benny stiffens next to Dean, however, so quiet Dean can hear some leaves rustling in the distance with the light breeze that picks up. “Bonjour. You must be Castiel?” 

Dean glances between them, the tension drawing tight. 

Castiel’s eyes narrow slightly. “I am. Are you Sheriff Lafitte?” 

“I am,” Benny replies evenly.

Shit, shit, shit, what’s going on? 

“Pleasure.” Castiel inclines his head in a way that mirrors politeness, but his expression is guarded. “Dean, Doris will be arriving in about an hour. She got delayed; one of her cats is sick and she will be bringing it along with her.” 

“Uh,” Dean blinks, trying to catch up to the conversation and process the curt dismissal Castiel had given Benny. “Sure, Cas. Uh, she brings her cats sometimes, I got all the fixins for a litter box in the hall closet. Go ahead and set it up in her bathroom.”

“Of course,” Castiel replies. His gaze shifts over Dean’s head to Benny. “Sheriff.” And then he leaves, the door clattering shut behind him. 

All too quickly, Benny excuses himself. He thanks Dean for lunch, tells him to call him in a few days and let him know when he can come by and help pick peaches so he can take home a cobbler. Dean watches him leave in a daze and then he’s left alone on the porch, an uncomfortable sensation twisting in his gut as the sun-warmed wood warms his now bare feet. Castiel had been so… dismissive of Benny. Dean has never seen him act so coldly towards someone. And Benny had reacted just as stiffly. Why wouldn’t Benny tell Dean why he was acting so funny? After all that they’d talked about concerning Castiel, Dean thought Benny’d be more than excited to meet him. Their encounter was a disaster. No physical blows were thrown but Dean feels like he got put through the ringer anyway. 

Sighing, Dean collects the dirty dishes and balances them on his arms, careful as he makes his way inside the house. 

He’ll talk to Castiel about it. For all that Castiel is secretive, he’s never lied to Dean. Perhaps he’s omitted some truths from him, but if he’s in witsec like Dean suspects, that’s understandable. 

Maybe Benny knows who Castiel is, after seeing his face.

Who Castiel _really_ is.

It’s time for Dean to finally ask Castiel some questions. He’s a little afraid that he’ll mess up whatever symbiosis they’ve fallen into, but he’s more concerned about his best friend getting along with his… well- whatever Castiel is to him. 

Sighing, Dean stares at the suds as he starts filling the sink to clean up lunch. He doesn’t want to lose Castiel, but his checkout date is also fast approaching, and Dean doesn’t want their last few weeks of time together to be under a storm cloud. 

And a part of him… 

A part of him hopes that maybe Castiel will choose to stay, instead of check out.

\--*--

Victor had given Castiel a list of all local and surrounding law enforcement. They were made aware of Castiel’s presence in the small town, and instructed not to engage. All police officers and detectives knew to keep an eye out for any disturbances, but Castiel was to be left alone. That way, if anything did go astray, no innocent people got hurt in the crossfire. Victor had sent out a profile and photo and told officers that if anything were to happen, Castiel would be able to take care of the situation himself. 

Of course, law enforcement hadn’t liked the idea, but when Victor gave them the name of the protected witness, they all scattered like roaches, too happy to pretend they knew nothing of the newest resident.

Dmitri Krushnic. 

Baba Jaga.

Dmitri was the identity given to him by the government. Castiel Novak was born in Boston. Dmitri was born in Moscow, Russia. Castiel graduated high school at the top of his class. Dmitri fell off the radar when his family was kidnapped. Castiel lost touch with his family when he married an Amish woman. Dmitri rose to fame, and Castiel faded into the background.

Baba Jaga, the Boogeyman, struck fear into anyone who caught wind of his name. Baba Jaga killed emissaries, politicians; Baba Jaga could integrate seamlessly into target’s lives, so undercover that even the government that hired him questioned his loyalties. Baba Jaga was a siren; an adoptive father; a doting uncle; a brothel worker. Baba Jaga could be the best man at your wedding, your child’s kindergarten teacher. 

Dmitri’s appearance was never altered. Those who knew of him were meant to recognize him, all part of the psychological warfare, the man who couldn’t - or maybe wouldn’t - die. Dmitri never went into anything with a disguise because he looked average enough, slid into his roles with ease. 

Dmitri eventually died in a shootout in Novosibirsk last October.

Baba Jaga was dead. 

Castiel divorced his Amish wife, the papers neatly documented and filed as he integrated back into modern society. Castiel left Vermont to go see the country, and landed in a quaint bed and breakfast in South Carolina, one run by reliable and trustworthy Dean Winchester, who does his own woodworking and wins the pie baking competition every year. 

Dean Winchester, who had been handpicked by the government to protect and shelter Castiel without any clue as to what he’s done, where he’s been, and hadn’t any idea that he’d been picked in the first place. On the tip of Castiel’s tongue rests confessions of his sins; every single day he prevents himself from saying “I once had to kill an eight year old girl”, or “I fathered three children and they have no idea who I am; their mother thinks I’m dead”, or “I blew up a hospital with the patients and staff still inside”. Castiel has come to terms with, and has even accepted the atrocious things he’s done over the past twenty years, but he’s under no delusion whatsoever that Dean would let them slide by so easily. 

Dean Winchester is a decorated ex federal agent. He holds the Medal of Meritorious Achievement for saving two children from a drug bust gone wrong, the junkies having set fire to the building with the children still inside. Dean had administered first aid and had been the lead investigator on finding the children’s parents, returning them to safety. He holds the Medal of Valor for taking a bullet to the chest during an extraction of a violent mob boss, where he was still able to fully restrain and cuff the criminal while suffering from a punctured lung and a concussion. The entire mafia had crumbled without their boss, and the crime rates in that city had dropped almost permanently. 

Add to that many commemorations and nods from three different presidents as well as many law enforcement officers, Dean’s career had been something out of a fairy tale. 

When the humdrum of the bed and breakfast quiets and Castiel is left alone with his thoughts, unbusy and idle, the differences in their lives hit him like a bucket of cold water. Dean treats him so gently, so kindly, so sweetly, and yet every time Castiel looks down at his hands he sees blood. Why can’t Dean see it? 

Why won’t Dean see it? 

“Cas?” 

He’d heard Benny’s truck take off nearly twenty minutes ago. Castiel has been waiting in the tea room, seated by the window so he can see when Doris’ car arrives, always ready to go out and help her immediately. His back is stiff, his jaw is tense, and he does not remove his gaze from the window as he hears the soft pitter patter of Dean’s bare feet walking from the back of the house up to the tea room. The chair across from Castiel is pulled out, the fuzzy circles on the bottom of the legs muffling the noise, and Dean’s presence is… full. Not heavy, or oppressive, which is surprising because Castiel knows very well what conversation they are about to have.

He feels full, because Dean fills his empty vessel in ways he’s never imagined possible.

“Hey.” 

Castiel still keeps his eyes on the window, peering out into the front yard. The empty spot where the willow tree used to stand tall and proud despite its decay seems so foreign. “Hello, Dean.” 

He doesn’t need to look at the other man to know that he’s fidgeting. Dean drums his fingers, scrubs his mouth, rubs the back of his neck whenever he’s searching for words, or is unsure how to proceed. For a man so confident and sure of himself, it’s incredibly charming when he falters. It’s silent for a few more moments, before Dean finally decides on his monologue.

“Look, I know Benny recognized you. The only reason a Sheriff would recognize someone that they’ve never met before is if they’ve seen ‘em somehow. A fed dropped you off, and I’m bettin’ that fed also dropped off a file with your name on it in every station within a hundred mile radius. I know you’re in some kinda protection program and you’re not obligated to tell me shit about how or why, even if I think I oughta know since I’m an ex fed myself. I know that look in your eye, Cas. I know you seen some shit, done some shit. An’ I was curious for a long time, y’know? Wanted to know where you came from, what you did. But then… then I stopped bein’ curious.” 

That causes Castiel to finally tilt his head towards Dean. Dean has his hands folded atop the table, still wearing his sweat-soaked shirt, his skin flushed from the sun and his muscles veiny from exertion. He looks ridiculous sitting in a room designed for tea parties, his hunched over and uncomfortable body language lending to the image. Dean is staring at his hands, barreling through his words like he won’t ever get them off his chest if he doesn’t do it quickly.

“I didn’t know who you were for a long time, but now I think I do.” Dean lifts his gaze, the green of his eyes bright and determined. It steals the breath from Castiel’s lungs, his posture relaxing without him noticing, now that he has Dean’s attention focused on him. “You’re Cas. You like pecan pie and hate coffee. You’re a hard worker, but you’re a professional relaxer when you meditate and get all zen. You help out to stay busy and feel useful but mostly to keep me company. You treat my guests like how I treat my guests, like you’ve been runnin’ this business with me since I took over. I know you think you don’t know who you are, but when I look at you every morning, when I see you wearin’ somethin’ pretty and just being… _you_ , I know who you are. You’re Cas.” Dean’s eyes are hyper-focused on Castiel’s own eyes, never once wavering. “An’ nothin’ from your past defines who you are right now, in this moment, sittin’ in this frilly tea room with _me_.”

Castiel’s breath leaves his lungs in a choked break, his eyes stinging. What is this sensation blossoming in his chest? Why do his eyes burn? He lifts a hand up to his face, surprised when the pads of his fingers track through wetness on his cheeks. He stares at his glistening fingers in surprise, feeling more warmth, his breath hiccuping again. 

He’s… crying.

For the first time in the past thirty years, Castiel is crying. It’s quiet, shaky breaths and leaking eyes, nothing dramatic like in some of the movies Dean doesn’t admit to watching. It’s a soft thing, a gentle release, and with each tear that falls, Castiel feels lighter and lighter. Across the table Dean looks a mixture of unsure and happy - unsure, likely, as to how to handle a grown man crying, but definitely happy to see that the tears are not of sadness, but of… 

What is this feeling? 

Now Dean looks soft, instead of awkward, in this space. He is masculine and strong and radiant but surrounded by lace and rose petals he’s sweet. He’s accepting and he’s warm and honest and kind and brave and when Castiel wipes his face and looks down at his hands, he no longer sees red. He sees the dampness of tears, the lines in his palms, the scars on his fingers, but he sees no blood. That warmth blooms so bright and big in his chest Castiel thinks he might float away, a zeppelin of euphoria. 

 

Their eyes meet again, and Castiel suddenly knows what the feeling is. 

Love. 

He is Castiel Novak, and he is in love.

With Dean,

and with himself.


End file.
